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i 


Yarborough the Premier 


A Novel 


BY 

A. R. Weekes 

*1 





New York and London 

Harper ( f!f Brothers Publishers 
1904 


LIBRARY o* CONGRESS 
Tw« Copies Received 

FEB 16 1904 

V Copyrig^t Entry 
xUw c 

CLASS a, XXo. No. 
^ S' I 0 
■ COPY 8 


3 ^ 



\ I i 



C r ( 
C 
< 9 


Copyright, 1904, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 
Published February, 1904 


r 


Contents 

CHAPTER 

I . A Watcher by Moonlight i 

II. Kindred 

III. The Broad, Vine-Sheltered Path ... 38 

IV. Flower o’ the Peach 61 

V. In Grandison Square 73 

VI. The Charlatan 83 

VII. The Wanderer 102 

VIII. What Were Fools Made For, But To Be 

Cheated? 122 

IX. The Laurel Crown 148 

X. A Conference of the Powers .... 161 

XI. Noon: In the Jewel-shop 180 

XII. Afternoon: Love like a Fire .... 190 

XIII. Sunset: Love like a Haven 203 

XIV. Nightfall: Hast Thou Found Me, O Mine 

Enemy? 216 

XV. Midnight: Wine of Triumph 236 

XVI. The End Is at Hand 256 

XVII. He Commanded Payment To Be Made . . 270 

XVIII. To the Uttermost Farthing 285 

XIX. “Father, I Have Sinned’’ 297 

XX. Would God I Had Died for Thee . . . 324 

XXI. The Parsley Crown 33 ^ 





Yarborough the Premier 


I 


A Watcher by Moonlight 
LOUDS of moonlit vapour, carved by a south- 



ern wind into changeful shapes of citadel or 
island, slid rapidly across the azure of their shifting 
realm. The night was full of blurred noises: the 
trees, in the fulness of early leafage, conspiring with 
the wind-borne murmur of surf on a distant strand 
to make a sombre harmony of spring. The broken 
shadow of Chanston lay black across the crisp grass 
of the terrace, silvered with chill dew. Built by a 
Yarborough, after the design of Philibert Delorme, 
and held by them without a break, it had become 
typical, in its dark and irregular strength, of the 
men of their race, who had a name in the country- 
side for hardihood and caprice. Sacked by the 
Puritans in the evil days when Charles Yerburgh 
followed his namesake to the scaffold, its great 
wings were burned down, but the broad, many- 
gabled front, with the quaint tourelle, such as 
ryon loved to sketch, clinging like a marten’s nest 


Yarborough the Premier 


about its northern angle, survived the wreck. The 
wide central porch, gained by shallow steps and 
supported by twisted pillars carved, no two alike, 
after a Ferrarese arcade, was added by his son, who 
saw fit to turn Puritan within a year of the Restora- 
tion, but was forgiven by his cynical sovereign with 
a scoff at his faithless perversity. 

Dark against the single illuminated window which 
traced a rectangle of gold on the moon-silvered lawn, 
appeared the figures of two men. Sir Edmund Yar- 
borough, master of the house, lay back in a luxurious 
chair, himself in perfect harmony with the rich tra- 
ditional quiet of the room : he was a slender, distin- 
guished, indolent-looking man, but the race-mark of 
pride and intractable caprice was stamped on every 
feature of his oval face: on the hazel irids, thin nose, 
and flexible, mocking lips. Mainwaring Savile, his 
guest, who lounged, hand on hip, with an assured 
recklessness of bearing, in the recess of the window, 
was a politician of a rare type. His great height 
and massive physique, and the sculptured granite of 
his head, with its colourless features and wide, clear, 
gray eyes, spoke of wanderings and of warfare in 
many lands. Their voices were alike in a quality of 
clear penetration, which made them audible from 
lawn and porch above the rushing of the wind : but 
Sir Edmund’s was varied and animated and shaded 
with satire, and his diction almost puritanical in its 
elegance, while Savile spoke in a racy monotone, 
tinged with the drawl of America, and flavoured 
with phrases from alien civilisations. 

“ Do you think you are wise to carry it with you?” 

2 


Yarborough the Premier 


Sir Edmund asked, breaking a pause which had 
fallen between him and his guest. 

“I reckon it’s tolerably safe with me. Do you 
expect me to drop it, or leave it in a railway car- 
riage like an old umbrella?” 

‘‘It is well worth the expense of an assassination, 
my dear Savile.” 

Savile smiled somewhat grimly. “ I should rather 
like to be assassinated,” he said, clinching his hand 
over the Tudor roses carved on the transom of the 
open casement; ‘‘it would be rather an amusing 
experience : more amusing for me than for the other 
fellow, I expect. I should think he wouldn’t try it 
on twice.” 

“ I should not care to try and assassinate you my- 
self,” said Sir Edmund, dryly, ‘‘but the shabbiest 
cause has its fanatics. And to be sure your little 
treaty is quite an important affair: the prestige of 
England is involved in it.” 

‘‘Ah, that’s what the mob think,” Savile said 
with easy scorn. ‘‘Of course if they got wind of it 
there ’d be a row.” 

‘‘Lord Hayes would have to resign. Lord Ferdi- 
nand Savile would cease to be the figurehead of the 
Foreign Office, and Mr. Mainwaring Savile would 
lose his under-secretaryship and all those little po- 
litical strings which he manipulates so nicely, invisi- 
ble in the background.” 

‘‘ Dare say; but they’re not going to get wind of it 
for another six months, and by that time they’ll have 
forgotten the whole caboodle.” 

“You will never be taken quite seriously as a poli- 
3 


Yarborough the Premier 


tician, my dear fellow, till you forget that you have 
been a cow-boy.” 

“I shouldn’t say caboodle in the House, but I’m 
off duty to-night. After all, I’m not sure but what 
I’m chiefly a cow-boy still. I get pretty sick of all 
this sometimes.” He threw out his sunburned hand 
with a gesture which included the yellow-lighted in- 
terior, and the indigo-blue of the moonlit sky and 
lawn. ‘‘I can hear the sea loud enough to-night, 
and smell it too: the air’s rank with salt.” 

“How injurious to my syringas! Do keep to the 
point — that is, if you have a point to keep to. What 
is it you want?” 

“I’ve brought the draught down to show you; 
don’t you think your opinion’s worth having?” 

“Most eminently so; but I’m surprised that you 
do.” 

“If I’m a cow-boy in politics, you’re an epicure; 
but I know you have done good diplomatic work on 
the Continent, and I expected to get some first- 
hand information out of you regarding the temper 
of the powers in question. Besides, your wits are 
valuable when you condescend to concentrate them. 
You can’t read our new cipher?” 

“How should I — unless you think I made an in- 
quisition into your papers when you were staying 
here at Christmas?” 

Savile laughed. “Come to think of it, I did have 
a notion once or twice that some one had meddled 
with my desk; but I put it down to cats, and took to 
locking the door.” 

“Perhaps Christian played the spy on you; he is 
4 


Yarborough the Premier 


capable of it. He is one of the fanatics who would 
not stop short even of assassination. I wish you 
could hear his criticisms on your diplomatic policy in 
the past.” 

“Your brother? He’s a Rad.” 

“He is a man of sense, profound sense. You will 
be sorry to hear that you have had a narrow escape 
of meeting him to-night. I have been expecting 
him this last hour; but he will not come now; don’t 
hope for it.” 

“I’m glad of it. We don’t get on.” 

“The more fool you! He is great on foreign pol- 
itics; has all the courts of Europe at his fingers’-ends, 
and would yield you a richer store of curious infor- 
mation than you will ever draw from me. You 
might have shown him your treaty!” 

Savile smiled somewhat grimly. “I wouldn’t 
trust him within ten yards of the thing.” 

“Not even in cipher?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t back him not to read it; he is so 
infernally clever.” 

“Also he is a Rad; a pity that. He wars against 
all the traditions of our house.” Sir Edmund turn- 
ed his head and tilted his chin with an odd, feminine 
motion ; an untranslatable gleam came into the eyes 
that looked forth into vague spaces of moonlight. 
“He is too ambitious; he means, you know, to be 
premier. Upon my life, he is almost worth fight- 
ing.” 

“He has all the brains of the party,” Savile said 
suggestively. “ If we make a mess of this affair, and 
have to go out (which is on the cards, you know), I 

5 


Yarborough the Premier 


wouldn’t put it beyond him to come in as premier at 
thirty. You’d like that?” 

“Faith, I shouldn’t; the impudence of the boy! 
Yes . . Edmund let his voice die away, and Sa- 
vile, tingling with impatience, believed that the 
prize of his self-restraint was within reach. “Then, 
why not help us?” he said. 

“What a glorious night it is! You did not hear a 
footstep in the avenue, did you?” 

Savile uttered an exclamation of disgust. “Com- 
mend me to a Yarborough for annoyingness! Our 
existence as a government is at stake. Do you 
think I came down here to talk about the moon?” 

“I would you had, for you’re charming company 
when you don’t talk shop. Never mind,” — he 
paused a moment, and his voice fell penetrating and 
chill across the onset of the wind, while he looked up 
laughing into Savile’s face. “Come, I’ll give you 
the benefit of my intelligence, if it were only to 
annoy my ambitious brother ; read me out this won- 
derful draught.” 

“Sure we can’t be overheard?” 

“No one in the corridor could hear what we say 
at this end of the room ; and the garden of course is 
deserted.” 

Savile contented himself with a brief glance over 
the moon-bright terrace, and into the shadows of 
the old porch. So reassured, he drew from his 
pocket a large sheet of paper covered with inde- 
cipherable hieroglyphics, and commenced to read it 
aloud, in a monotonous yet penetrating voice, which 
had the orator’s gift of arresting attention. Sir 
6 


Yarborough the Premier 


Edmund listened, with a languid air which imper- 
fectly disguised the concentration of his powers of 
pure analysis, while it was read to the end. 

“Now,” said Savile, folding the paper, “now, 
Yarborough, your verdict?” 

Yarborough’s neutral calm dissolved in a flash of 
malign laughter. “Most admirable!” he said. 

“What’s the good of that? I want something 
more practical.” 

“Made public now, it would cost you your minis- 
terial lives; six months hence, it will pass with a few 
grumbles. In history it will be known as the Hayes 
ministry’s crowning blunder.” 

“Don’t agree with you in the least,” said Savile, 
crossly. “Why?” 

“My dear, dearest fellow, can’t you see? Good 
Heavens!” Edmund threw up his delicate hands 
with a comical gesture of despair. “Are you so 
blind that you can’t see it’s ruinous?” 

“Then what would you have us do?” 

“Precisely what you are doing.” 

“Thank you! You’re a useful counsellor.” 

Yarborough moved his slender shoulders. “It’s 
madness; but it’s chivalrous madness. My brother 
is not chivalrous in the least; he would adopt the 
obvious, but scandalous, alternative.” 

“Has he any morals?” 

“None whatever, where politics are concerned. 
I have: that’s why I bid you go on and pros- 
per.” 

“What, you who think we’re ruining the coun- 
try?” 


7 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Oh, it’s so much more artistic to lose the fight 
with clean hands than to win it by a trick.’’ 

“And a peculiarly dirty one, at that. Our only 
other course would be repudiation.’’ 

‘ ‘ Christian would say. Repudiate. F or me ’ ’ — Y ar- 
borough looked very much as if he would have liked 
to put his tongue in his cheek — “ I bid you preserve 
the honour of England in its pristine purity. Our 
politicians are always so pure, you know; they are 
blunt islanders, rough but sincere. After all, it may 
not cost us more than a few hundred millions sterling 
and a European war.’’ 

“Mocking spirit!’’ Savile turned on him angrily. 
“My faith, Yarborough, you’re too bad! I wish I’d 
stayed in town.’’ 

“Don’t say that; the champagne was admirable.” 

“Hardly worth catching the last train down and 
the first train back for, all the same.” 

“Yes, that’s a pity. I should have been delighted 
to put you up. You diplomats are always in a 
hurry; you’re the dearest fellows, but very exhaust- 
ing.” 

Savile could not help smiling. He walked up and 
down the room, whistling a few bars of a Magyar 
folk-song. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, coming to a 
stand-still before his host, who lay with half -shut 
eyes, the incarnation of indolent perversity, “we’re 
all in a mess together, but I’ll back this treaty to 
do its work as well as any other — yes, and better 
too. But I want your help for Clause XII., and 
you’ve got to give it me. You know the men, the 
places, the interests involved; you were working at 
8 


Yarborough the Premier 

Berlin three years ago. You’re one of us, you stand 
and fall with us ; you’ve eaten our bread, and taken 
our pay. That’s coarsely put, but it’s true, I guess. 
You can’t go back on us now.” 

“Dearest fellow, do you mean to insult me?” Yar- 
borough drawled. Savile divined, rather than saw, 
that he had struck with a master-hand the sensitive 
strings of far-inherited pride. 

“Heaven forbid,” he answered. “But it sounds 
shabby, doesn’t it?” 

“You’re right, and what I know is at your service. 
Recapitulate the heads of the draught.” 

Savile, triumphant, obeyed; and when the recital 
was completed they fell into a discussion in which 
Sir Edmund laid aside his mask of faineance, and 
displayed those qualities of subtle, close, and de- 
tailed analysis which had originally won him a sub- 
ordinate sinecure in the Hayes administration, with 
scope for the occasional exercise of his idiosyncratic 
gifts. They had settled the opening clauses, when 
suddenly Savile broke off and threw up his hand 
with a sharp gesture to enforce silence. “Hark!” 
he said, “what’s that?” 

They listened intently. The wind wailed in the 
trees and poured round the old walls like a gush of 
water; in its lulls came the intermittent murmur of 
the surf. Leaves danced over the lawn in flakes of 
shadow, but no living thing moved upon it. Savile 
stepped suddenly across to the door, and threw it 
wide, moving noiselessly like a cat; the long corridor 
stretched before him, empty and brightly lighted. 
Hurrying softly back, he leaned out of the great 
9 


Yarborough the Premier 


window into the night, which mocked him with its 
dance of shadows; his eyes, keen as a Sioux’s, trav- 
elled over the terrace barred with moonlight, and 
the lawn freaked with changeful dark, and dwelt 
longest on the porch with its twisted pillars, where 
the white light played like sword-blades in and out 
between the opaque shadows of the arcade. But he 
turned away at last with a disappointed air. 

“I could have sworn I heard some one stirring, 
but I suppose I was wrong. Yet, to a trained ear, 
there’s something almost unique in human move- 
ments, especially in the movements of a man that’s 
trying to keep quiet. Animals move stealthily 
enough, but not with that rigid tension of secrecy; a | 
man’s feet are tied by self-consciousness.” 

“Pure imagination!” Yarborough assured him. 
“I promise you, our country-folk are not so deeply | 
versed in politics!” 

“Some one might have got wind of my mis- > 
sion,” Savile rejoined, still with an air of uneasiness. 
“That step you pretended to hear might as easily 
as not have been a real one. I’d like to give chase, 
and set my mark on the eavesdropper if I caught 
him; but I’ve no time to-night. However, we’ll 
make all safe.” He locked the door, shut and fast- 
ened the hasp of the window, and came and seated 
himself beside Yarborough’s chair, lowering his voice 
almost to a whisper, and they resumed their inter- 
rupted discussion. 

They were still arguing when the clock struck ! 
three, and Savile looked up with an exclamation ; 
which betrayed his continental training. “Mille 
10 


Yarborough the Premier 

diables ! And the train goes at three-fifty. I must 
go!” 

“Can’t you stay?’’ 

“I’ve a dozen things to do to-night — to-day, 
rather — before I meet Lord Ferdinand at ten. I 
tried for a special, but couldn’t get it; and the slow 
takes two hours to get-up. Confound you! why do 
you live in this derelict village?’’ 

Yarborough got up and unfastened the window. 
“I like to be at a distance from the station,’’ he ex- 
plained urbanely. “Surely you can walk four miles 
in fifty minutes?” 

“But the treaty, man, the treaty! We’ve not 
finished.” 

“Oh, haven’t we? I hoped we had.” 

“We haven’t touched Clause XII. yet, and that’s 
the kernel of it all. Yarborough, come up to town 
with me!” 

Edmund laughed in his face. “What, I? Mon 
cher. I’ve no taste for midnight journeys.” 

The spurt of energy, begotten of wounded pride, 
was over, and S a vile saw that it would be idle to 
urge his point. He cursed the preoccupation 
which had blinded him to the passing of the hours, 
while he recognized that the spell was cast by the 
very adroitness of intellect which made Edmund 
Yarborough an ally worth courting. The eccentric 
politician must be taken on his own terms, or not at 
all ; and Savile decided that anything was better than 
to lose his criticism on the point where it was likely 
to be most effectual. 

“I’ll leave it with you, and you can look it over 

II 


Yarborough the Premier 


and make notes. Then I’ll send one of my men 
down and fetch it some time to-morrow. Mind, 
you’re not to post it; I wouldn’t trust it out of my 
ken for all the gold of Yukon.” 

“I’ll sleep with it under my pillow,” Yarborough 
answered, with a mocking inflection which Savile 
found exasperating. 

“You’ll lose your berth if it comes out,” he said 
savagely. 

“You will never lose your manners,” Yarborough 
retorted smiling. “Why are you not more civil- 
ised? Good-night: I’ll guard it as the apple of my 
eye.” 

Savile turned as he stepped into the avenue, and 
looked over his shoulder at the thin pliant form and 
decisive features. “Mind you do, that’s all,” he 
shouted back, “for it’s life and death to us.” 

Yarborough came back into the empty room with 
those words ringing in his ears. He picked up the 
treaty, yawned, glanced at the clock, glanced at the 
treaty, and yawned again. The fuel of excitement 
had burned down to ashes, and he felt very much in- 
clined to go to bed. At the farther end of the room 
stood a massive oak chest, bound with iron and 
clamped to the wall; the antique spring by which 
it opened was known only to Sir Edmund and 
his brother Christian, for in it they kept all bonds, 
securities, insurances, and other business papers re- 
lating to their private affairs. Edmund touched 
the spring, and laid Savile ’s invaluable document on 
the top of the whole medley, which consisted of the 
joint accumulation of many years. Then the lid fell 
12 


Yarborough the Premier 


with a jarring clang, and the philosopher was free to 
seek his couch with a conscience void of offence and 
free from presentiment. 

Meanwhile Savile was leaning back in the corner 
of a first-class compartment, smoking a cigar of a 
favourite brand, the look of annoyance fading out of 
his face as he recalled and reviewed the suggestions 
advanced by his host. He acknowledged that he 
had been dealing with a very clever man, whose help 
was cheaply bought even at the price of a midnight 
journey in a train which stopped at every station. 
He had no real fear for the treaty; he knew Yar- 
borough, in spite of his idle and shiftless ways, to be 
a man of scrupulous honour and sensitive pride, who 
would sooner die than betray a trust. On the whole, 
the Foreign Minister’s nephew and under-secretary 
was fairly content with his night’s work. 

He was nearing Waterloo, and had almost dropped 
asleep, when an incident occurred which roused his 
faculties to their normal keenness, and left an im- 
pression of vague dissatisfaction on his mind. Amid 
an accompaniment of whistles, the train slackened 
speed, stopped, reversed, and backed slowly into a 
siding; and Savile, thrusting his head out of the 
window, witnessed a scene which he never forgot. 
The wind had dropped, and the sun was just above 
the horizon, a dilated disk of silver, its edge dis- 
solved in a fog which steeped the dreary flats of 
Clapham in a chill and dripping whiteness. Out of 
the blank white vapour of the south, where Chanston 
lay beside the sea, a solitary engine, steadied on 
the rails by an empty tender, raced past the halted 

13 


Yarborough the Premier 


train with levers clanging and fires that flickered 
up into the wind, and disappeared into the abid- 
ing night of the city. Savile, who had tried in vain 
to get a special, cursed his luck as it approached; as 
it passed, he caught a fleeting picture of the men who 
rode on it. The driver stood with a hand on the 
brake; the stoker was in the act of piling fuel upon 
the furnace; wary and occupied, their minds were 
riveted to their work. The solitary passenger stood 
free with folded arms, his body yielding easily to 
the rocking of the levers: his lips moved in dumb 
rhetoric, dark fire dwelt in his eyes, with the face 
of a man who makes himself a king or a god he 
looked out over the smoky dreaming city. Savile 
started from his seat, as if with some half-formed 
purpose of calling him by name, but sank back again 
as the engine thundered past, and the odd tableau 
was carried on into the gloom. 

“Well,” he said aloud, as he struck a match to 
light his morning cigar, “if I hadn’t got Edmund’s 
word to the contrary, I could have sworn that was 
Christian Y arborough . ’ ’ 


II 


Kindred 

M AINWARING SAVILE was a man of moder- 
ate ambitions; conscious that he already held 
the invisible strings of power, he was the less in a 
hurry to grasp at its outward show. In a reactionary 
age, when young men were everywhere coming to 
the front, when generosity was at a discount, and 
humility did not come into the market at all, people 
called him supine, because he never showed the least 
anxiety to supplant his uncle; but, in truth, he was 
simply biding his time, conscious that at thirty-five 
he could well afford to wait a few years till suprem- 
acy should come naturally to his hand, without risk 
of mortifying Lord Ferdinand. He felt also the lim- 
itations of his inexperience, and the value of the 
elder man’s practical acquaintance with the past. 
There was however a touch of aloofness in his atti- 
tude which went some way to justify those who 
called him a crank : he was a rigidly honourable man, 
and had no tolerance for the tricks and shifts, the 
midnight stabs and the treacherous compromises of 
the political arena. He never bowed the knee be- 
fore the idol of expediency: he never served him- 
self of popular shibboleths: he often failed to keep 
in mind the artificial distinctions of party: his 

15 


Yarborough the Premier 

ideals were racy and primitive, and smacked of 
the sea. 

The fog did not lift all day, and the gas was lit in 
the streets when Savile walked back to his chambers 
in Madison Street, after a busy day spent at the 
Foreign Office. The cries of the newspaper boys 
rang thin and faint in his ears: he neither heard 
what they said, nor observed that curious eyes 
were fixed upon him as he passed. He let himself 
in and went straight up to his study. The room was 
quite dark, and he supposed it empty: but, as he 
crossed the threshold, an invisible voice said lazily: 

“You can always go yachting, y’ know.” 

Savile switched the button of the electric light 
before answering. It revealed a large, bare room, 
lined with bookcases, neat with the neatness of a 
soldier servant, and containing a single arm-chair, 
which was at present occupied, as he had anticipated, 
by a tall thin man in a gray tweed suit, who sat con- 
tentedly trying to smoke an extinct cigar. “Oh, 
it’s you, is it?” he said carelessly. “What do you 
want, anyway?” 

“I — er — called to offer my condolences.” 

Savile raised his eyebrows. “Thanks, my dear 
Estcourt: do I need them?” 

Estcourt nodded vaguely towards the evening 
paper which he had brought in and thrown down on 
the table. “ Bit awkward, I thought, that’s all,” he 
explained. “But I suppose you know your own 
business best.” 

Savile was lighting his pipe, and paused a moment 
before speaking: the glow flickered and died over his 

i6 


Yarborough the Premier 


strong and colourless features. “I don’t under- 
stand,” he said slowly. “Is it a riddle?” 

‘'Haven’t you seen the evening papers?” 

“No: why?” 

“The deuce you haven’t!” Estcourt exclaimed, 
with an energy foreign to his temperament. “Then 
you had better, that’s all.” 

“Anything in our line?” Savile asked. “Sensa- 
tional head-lines in this sort of thing are generally a 
fake, you know.” 

“It’s circumstantial enough, anyhow.” 

“Let’s hear it, then.” 

“It purports to give the exact terms of a new 
German alliance, secretly worked out by a bribed 
F. O., and mercifully revealed on the eve of conclu- 
sion to the disinterested correspondents of the lead- 
ing Liberal journals. It says there has been noth- 
ing like it since the T imes forced ministers to show 
[ their hand in 1854.” 

“Ah!” said Savile softly. His hand closed sud- 
i denly and crushed the flimsy sheet: his breathing 
; thickened and was taken with difficulty. Estcourt 
! drew his own conclusions as to the importance of 
the revelations, and kept them to himself. 

“It’s on page three,” he said, with an inquisitive 
glance. “Inserted in going to press, don’t you 
know?” 

I Savile smoothed out the page, and ran his eye over 
! the loose, black type of the “ Latest News ” column. 
The letters danced before his eyes: he could read 
it only by an effort of will. Not one clause had es- 
caped: though the original draught was here con- 
! 2 17 


Yarborough the Premier 


densed, no article of any significance was omitted. 
He read it through once, and jerked it away: it fell 
on the edge of the table, and thence to the floor. 
Estcourt was scared by the sight of Savile’s furious 
anger and calm, and by the sudden wrath in his 
gray eyes. j 

“If I knew who had done this — !“ he exclaimed, 
and broke off to repeat his words with convulsed 
lips. “I’d make him rue it!” 

“I’m glad you don’t know,’’ Estcourt said truth- 
fully: he was not heroic, and distrusted other men’s 
emotions, having few of his own. 

“La, la,’’ Savile said softly: and suddenly he 
seemed to put away his anger, and master it and 
chain it down subservient. “We shall go out over 
this, Tony. With a risky little majority like ours, 
we shall never be able to ride out such a storm. 
Clever — very.” 

“You’ve no guess who did it?’’ ' 

“None whatever : unless — ’ ’ 

Again his face changed, and put on a look of in-' 
finite watchfulness, the look of a trapper marking li 
down a trail. “What fools men are!’’ he said with- j 
out bitterness. 

“You mean?’’ 

“I mean myself, for trusting a man without faith 
or energy. However, he must stand the racket: I 
can’t shield him.’’ 

“Who is it?’’ 

“ Edmund Yarborough — fool that he is! He’s let 
it slip through his fingers. It’s bound to come out,^ 
so I may as well gratify your itching ears.’’ 

i8 ' 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Surely Yarborough’s hardly the man to sell it? 
He’s impecunious, but as proud as Lucifer.” 

“Proud? He’s a fool, that’s all. I’d sooner han- 
I die a coward or a mercenary any day of the week 
than a downright fool like Edmund Yarborough. 
— Well, what is it?” 

Savile’s valet, a smart, grave American, had ap- 
peared in the doorway. “Sir Edmund Yarborough 
has called to see you, sir,” he explained. 

The two men exchanged glances. “I’ll go,” Est- 
I court said hurriedly. “Don’t have him shown up 
till I’m out of it. I don’t want to meet him.” 

! “Afraid of a scene, eh? There isn’t going to be 
any scene, Tony, so you needn’t get nervous: how- 
ever, Markham shall let you out by a back way.” 

Unabashed by the contempt that lurked in Savile’s 
tone, Estcourt fled: and a minute later Edmund Yar- 
borough was ushered in. Savile had been angry, 
Estcourt excited; but in Yarborough’s face there 
was no room for the lesser emotions. Ruin had 
fallen upon him, and he accepted it proudly, but not 
without sickness of heart. He bowed, taking no 
: notice of Savile’s outstretched hand. 

“You do not, of course, understand what has 
i brought me here,” he began. “I came — ” 

“To bring back the treaty?” Savile suggested 
: dryly. 

“I — I have not brought it — I — ” he made a sharp 
; call upon his self-control, and spoke more calmly. 
I “ I have lost it, Savile. It was stolen in the night.” 

Savile shrugged his shoulders. “You don’t say 
: so!” 


19 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I laid it away in an old coffer, where the most 
important and valuable of our business papers are* 
always kept. I believed it to be safe. In the morn- i 
ing, when I opened the coffer, it was gone.” 

“Very singular. And you allow that it wasi 

stolen?” • ] 

Yarborough lifted his head, looking haughtily into ' 

Savile’s mocking eyes. “Am I to understand that/ 
you are already in possession of the facts?” he 
asked. ' 

Savile picked up the newspaper and handed it to 
him, marking with his forefinger the incriminating 
paragraph. 

Yarborough glanced down the column: the colour 
faded out of his face. 

“I see I am too late,” he said quietly. “Too late 
for you — and for myself.” 

“Pity you weren’t more careful: I told you not 
to leave it about.” ^ 

“You need not fear that any blame will fall on^ 
you. I, and I alone, am in fault: and I am now on 
my way to make all necessary explanations in the ) 
proper quarters.” i 

“They’ll probably unfrock — I mean, break you 
for it.” 

“Inevitably.” 

“You’ve some pluck, anyhow,” said Savile crit- 
ically. “After all, it was an accident.” 

“One of those accidents which are not allowed to 
happen.” 

“Have you any guess who did it?” 

“None.” 


20 


Yarborough the Premier 


“He must have known our cipher: that limits the 
i field a bit. And he was a smart man at his trade, 
I too. Was the safe much knocked about?” 
i “It was intact.” 

I “Queer, that. Who had the key?” 

“There are three locks, opening each by a differ- 
ent spring, of which the secret has been jealously 
guarded.” 

‘ ‘ I take it that the noise I heard was the footstep 
: of a spy, who hid himself, by the aid of the powers of 
i darkness, when I looked out of the window. Could 
he have found out how to work those springs simply 
by watching you when you put the treaty away in 
it?” 

“Impossible: they are too intricate.” 

“It’s a queer story,” said Savile. His tone was 
pregnant with innuendo: it brought a flush to Ed- 
mund Yarborough’s dark cheek. 

“Very queer,” he echoed unflinchingly. “And 
very suspicious.” 

“M’yes.” Savile darted a keen glance at him, 
from eyes lynx-bright, their pupils contracted to pin- 
points. “By-the-bye, that brother of yours — what 
was he doing in that special?” 

“What special? Christian does not travel in 
specials, so far as I am aware.” 

“My slow was shunted for a special this morning, 
and your brother was on it.” 

“I expected him at Chanston, as you know, but 
he did not arrive. I think — ” 

He was forced to break off: his voice died in his 
throat. The events of the night flashed upon them 
21 


Yarborough the Premier 


both in a succession of pictures : the step at the win- 
dow, the rifled safe, the problem of the intact spring, 
the racing special, the solitary passenger hurrying 
through the white chill of dawn. To Savile, as he 
recalled Christian Yarborough’s dubious repute and 
wavering ethics, came confirmation of his vague 
suspicion: to Edmund, in one blinding moment 
packed with storm-fires, came certainty. The very 
magnitude of the blow left him perforce competent 
to think and act: it seemed an eternity, it was in 
reality only the intake of a breath, before he com- 
pleted his sentence. 

“ — you must have made a mistake.” 

The accent rang false, and he knew it: and he was 
not surprised to read disc/elief in Savile’s face. “I 
saw him plain as I see you now,” Savile said. ‘‘You 
know what a striking face it is — not much like the 
average.” 

‘‘You were deceived by twilight, or by a chance 
resemblance.” 

Savile’s lip curled. ‘‘Shielding him, eh?” he said 
harshly. ‘‘That won’t work with me, you know.” 

‘‘Do I understand that you accuse him?” 

‘‘I shouldn’t wonder if he stole the treaty.” 

‘‘ He is my brother.” 

‘‘ But cunning as a fox and shabby as a rat, all the 
same.” 

‘‘Perhaps you apply those epithets to me also?” 

Savile took him suddenly by the shoulders and 
pushed him towards the lamp: he put his hand 
under Edmund’s chin, held up his face to the light, 
and looked into it: ‘‘No, I don’t,” he said, letting 
22 


Yarborough the Premier 


him go with an indifference which was in itself an 
insult. “You’re not a thief. But we all know 
what he is.’’ 

“God help me!’’ Edmund stammered, his voice 
shaken with passion : he shrank from Savile’s hand- 
ling as a lady might shrink from some gross per- 
sonal indignity. “You cad! you think you can 
do what you like with any man weaker than your- 
self.’’ 

“You’re hysterically sensitive,’’ Savile returned 
coolly. “ I go a good deal by men’s faces, that’s all. 
I’d stake my life on your innocence, now: before, I 
wouldn’t have betted an even sixpence.’’ 

‘ ‘ I have the bad taste to be extremely indifferent 
to your opinion,’’ Edmund retorted. “Are you go- 
ing to denounce Christian on the strength of this 
very cogent evidence?’’ 

“Not till I can prove my case.’’ 

“ I commend your wisdom: people might say that 
it was because you had a prejudice against him.’’ 

“ I certainly do hate that fellow,’’ Savile admitted, 
more to himself than to Edmund. “And it’s a 
flimsy chain of evidence. Yet you were certain. 
Why were you so certain?’’ 

Suddenly turning, he levelled one of his long 
piercing looks at Edmund Yarborough, who met it 
without flinching. “What made you so sure it was 
he that did it ? What do you know that you haven’t 
told me?’’ 

“What do you suppose, now — that we’re both 
deep in a Radical plot and are going to divide the 
bribe?’’ 


23 


Yarborough the Premier 


“What was that damning item that sprang up in 
your memory just now and drove the blood out of 
your face? You recognised his footstep, or you can 
recall suspicious words, or — Heaven of Heavens, 
I’ve got it! Of course, he knew the spring.” 

Edmund was silent for a moment, divided be- 
tween loyalty to his brother and obedience to his 
own code of honour. Nothing would fully meet the 
exigencies of such a question except a flat denial, 
such as Christian himself would have given without 
a qualm, and would probably be most indignant 
with him if he failed to give it: but then Christian 
had owned in camera that he rather liked telling 
lies, while Edmund held a Puritan ideal of truth 
worthy of George Washington. In the end, the 
obvious irony of his answer was scarcely a compli- 
ment to Christian, but it was perhaps the best that 
could have issued from such a contest of the cardinal 
virtues. “He is of age: ask him,” he said cyn- 
ically: “he shall speak for himself.” 

Savile burst out laughing. “Ha! that’s good,” 
he said. “You won’t tell lies for him, anyhow.” 

“You laugh, Mr. Savile, and that is so charming 
of you; but will you not impart to me the point of 
your amusement ? Is it that I am an innocent man 
ruined for life, and on the brink of public degrada- 
tion? Or is it that you proved a few minutes ago 
that you are my superior in physical strength ? You 
are English, and the English are so generous: and no 
doubt it is because I am cosmopolitan that I do not 
quite appreciate your generosity or your humour. 
Well — that is all, I think. Good-night!” 

24 


Yarborough the Premier 


Savile did not defend himself: he would have 
found it hard to do so. He set little store by the 
amenities of civilisation, and found Edmund Yar- 
borough, with his nerves, and caprices, and foreign 
tricks of manner, mysterious and exasperating; and, 
though he was compelled to own that he had acted 
unfairly in wreaking his temper upon the ruined 
man, he justified himself by the reflection that 
Edmund, if not an accomplice in Christian’s mis- 
deeds, was certainly an accessory after the fact. 

Meanwhile Edmund Yarborough threaded his 
way eastward through the crowded streets of the 
sombre nocturnal Babylon, himself a mask in a 
world of masks, a unit in the teeming panorama of 
white, absorbed faces. He found himself, at last, 
in one of those sinister cuts de sac which lie with- 
in a couple of turnings of St. Martin’s Lane, de- 
serted except for an occasional patrol of police : the 
blind side-walls of factories, pierced only by a few 
slits of barred and smoky glass, leaned up and in- 
ward on either side, leaving only a narrow strip of 
gloom overhead, while the pavement was but a 
broken footway, scantily lit by the flicker of a 
broken gas-lamp at the entrance. The end of the 
alley, however, was filled up by an old, country- 
looking house, stained with the smoky rains of a 
hundred years, its front scarred by the tearing down 
of what had probably been a handsome portico, as a 
tree is scarred by the lopping of a bough, while a 
rustic balcony still ran along under the windows of 
the first story. All the splendour and glitter and 
crime of London went roaring by a quarter of a mile 
25 


Yarborough the Premier 


away: and yet there it stood, the little dumb house, 
quiet as the grave, holding the secrets of a hundred 
evil years, and throbbing no less vividly to-night 
with the heart -beats of a wild human ambition. 
Two men out of all London had the key of that de- 
serted house, and Edmund Yarborough was one of ‘ 
them; he let himself into the small square hall, 
where a jet of gas burned feebly, and softly closed 
the door, which was of solid oak, and massive 
enough to deaden sound. 

Edmund climbed the winding stair, which had the 
usual accompaniments of blistered paint, rickety 
balustrade, and foot-sore oil-cloth, and noiselessly 
opened a door to the right of the square landing; it 
swung inward without a creak, and he stood on the 
threshold of a large bare room lighted by an in- 
tensely vivid lustre of electric light from a dozen 
burners. The walls were stripped to lath and plas- 
ter, the ceiling had once been whitewashed, the 
mantel-piece was of chipped stucco, and beside the 
empty grate stood an old japanned scuttle: but the 
window which filled the opposite wall was masked 
with oaken shutters of recent date fastened with 
iron bars, and the deal table, eight feet square, 
which stood in the centre of the room, was covered 
with masses of papers, some printed, some in MS., 
all neatly docketed as if of the first importance. 
And there before it sat the man who had called the 
little dead house to life through many a feverish 
night, with a fountain-pen between his fingers, cov- 
ering sheet after sheet with a rapid, tiny writing, , 
cramped like an old man’s hand, finely looped, 
26 , 


Yarborough the Premier 


black, flourished, and legible as print. He made 
no errors, no revisions, no amplifications: once or 
twice he consulted his notes, or looked up a refer- 
ence, but for the most part he wrote on without 
pause or alteration, fast as that flying pen could 
travel. 

Edmund Yarborough saw his brother in profile, 
under a full blaze of light. He was a man of middle 
height, broad-shouldered, of a strong and yet ner- 
vous physique : his complexion had the clear ivory 
pallor of the perfectly healthy man who spends 
his life in-doors. Dark hair went back in a thick 
wave over his temples, and his eyes were of a clear 
dark gray stained with black, under fine, straight, 
black brows. The fire of an imperious tempera- 
ment had so modelled every lineament, as wax is 
modelled under heat, that his features had become a 
reflex of his character ; and strong and strange were 
the passions inscribed upon them. The workings of 
a fertile and unscrupulous intellect had bent the 
deep brow, and the wide eyes looked forth into a 
world of ambitious dreams with the arrogance of 
conscious power : the sensuous delicate curve of 
cheek and chin betrayed the artist and the dreamer, 

; while the indolent still lips might break as well into 
a smile of acrid and most piercing satire, as into that 
profound irony which is almost tender. Withal it 
was a young face, the face of a man who would never 
grow old: one could imagine that the spirit might 
wear out the body, but not that the body could sur- 
vive the quenching of the spirit’s flame. Edmund 
reflected that if he had not known his brother to be 
27 


Yarborough the Premier 


a scoundrel, he would assuredly have taken him for a 
patriot of the most disinterested type. 

He came forward, with his catlike step: Chris- 
tian, absorbed, did not hear him. Edmund thought 
him wonderfully unguarded for a guilty man : what 
if after all he should be innocent? Hope, like a 
tide of new life, invaded his veins. He came a step 
nearer, and got a second sensation, neither mental 
nor emotional, but physical: suspension, inertia, 
arrest of bodily faculties. The stolen treaty was 
lying on the table, close at his brother’s side. Stand- 
ing behind him, he touched him on the shoulder. 
Christian’s nerve was well disciplined, for he was not 
disconcerted even by the first sickening thrill of de- 
tection, although he had believed himself alone in 
the room and in the house. He wrote to the end of 
his sentence, dried his pen, and carefully laid it away 
before he so much as turned his head. Then he 
looked up at his brother. 

“You, Edmund?’’ he said: “did you come to 
fetch the treaty? Take it, and my blessing go with 
you: it’s nothing but waste-paper now.’’ 

“You stole it?’’ Edmund asked, in level tones of 
commonplace : but he was forced to lean against the 
table to steady himself. “You admit it?’’ 

“Admit it ? I glory in it, and advise you to thank 
Heaven upon your knees this night that there is one 
member of our family who has wit enough to see his 
duty to his country and heroism enough to perform 
it.” 

“I am not quite prepared to regard you as a 
martyr,” Edmund observed dryly. “At present 
28 


Yarborough the Premier 

I cannot get beyond the fact that you are a 
thief.” 

‘‘You call it a theft? Well, the true patriot is 
ever misunderstood.” 

‘‘I call it a theft of a very dastardly nature. 
Christian — ” Edmund came to a sudden pause: 
j the knowledge that he was speaking to his own 
: brother, the comrade of his childhood and boyhood, 

: the friend and intimate of later days, came over him 
in a sudden wave of affection. The bond of kinship 
had strong hold over the hearts of all the Yarbor- 
oughs: Edmund felt its power straitened about him, 
and would not have resisted it if he could. ‘‘Chris- 
tian,” he said again, more gently, ‘‘we are brothers, 
are we not? You cannot put me off with talk. 
You know, and I know, that you have done a thing 
such as no Yarborough ever did before: will you 
tell me the reason?” 

‘‘Is it possible that you don’t see any reason?” 

‘‘You stole it, and sold it to the papers, and I 
suppose they paid a high price for it. But, if it was 
only for the money, why did you not come to me?” 

Christian might have broken every commandment 
in the decalogue (and he had broken most of them), 
yet would not have blushed, however roundly taxed 
with his misdemeanours. But, at Edmund’s words, 
the colour came into his face, and he looked away. 

‘‘For the money? For a bribe? Ah, thanks, 
Edmund.” He tilted back his chair and put his 
hands in his pockets. ‘‘To be sure, I have extrava- 
gant tastes : I sold the treaty to pay my gambling 
debts and my tailor’s bill.” 

29 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I beg your pardon,” Edmund exclaimed, “if 
thought — I could only guess — ” j 

“And don’t I tell you you were right — quite- 
right?” f 

“But then I know you of old, and that you only 
blush when you are innocent.” 

“Well, perhaps I was not wholly mercenary,”- 
Christian admitted, with a quizzical glance. “Grant- 
ed, I am a knave, my dear Edmund: but I trust I 
am not such a fool as to risk my position for a few 
hundreds which I could have got from you for the 
asking. ’ ’ 

“And still less would you have risked mine, which, 
by-the-bye, is irretrievably lost. I shall have to fly - 
the country to avoid inconvenient questions.” 

“ I have ruined you, of course,” Christian said in a 
quick, business-like tone. “ I was prepared for that. 
Savile is a man of inveterate revenges.” 

“You do not like Mainwaring Savile?” 

“ He is clever,” said Christian meditatively. “ He 
is very strong; strong enough perhaps to defeat me, 
certainly to defy. My earliest act, on obtaining 
power, will be to obtain for him a position in the 
most distant corner of the empire.” 

“On obtaining power? Ambitious boy, how do 
you know that you will obtain power?” 

“Who else can govern, if not I? Savile is clever 
and strong, but he is a fool : his conscience never gives 
him a free hand. Lord Hayes is an old man, and 
weary of holding the balance of an elusive majority. ' 
Lord Ferdinand Savile is a fool of the exhausted , 
aristocratic type, and would do better as a minor 

30 


Yarborough the Premier 


poet. As Windsor is fond of him, he might hope to 
become Laureate. But I — I was created to be 
premier.” 

The epicurean who had played with life stood 
fascinated by the insolence of a magnificent egotism, 
rendered piquant and credible by the ironical power 
of brow and eyes. “What dreams, for a boy of 
nine - and -twenty!” he murmured. “You, prem- 
ier? You?” 

“Why not? Tve understudied the part for seven 
years. Were I offered the leadership to-day, I would 
accept it, and I do not believe I should disgrace my- 
self. But I do not want to be hampered by a pre- 
destinate policy. That treaty must, in any event, 
have gone when I became premier; but I preferred 
that it should never exist, so — I swept it away.” 

“Ah, I divined you would find it impracticably 
honest,” said Edmund dryly. 

“It was honest to the point of guilelessness. It 
was, in fact, the Sermon on the Mount rendered po- 
litically, and when I’m premier I doubt if I shall find 
it advisable to love my enemies.” 

“I dare say not,” Edmund agreed, with a little 
quiet laugh. “But tell me now: what would you 
have substituted for that treaty yourself?” 

Christian leaned forward, his thin fingers playing 
restlessly with the pen; his dark eyes, lit by in- 
dwelling fire, looked forward into infinity. “Let me 
sketch it for you,” he said, taking up a sheet of 
paper. “Are you blind, that you can’t see? Why, 
it is all as plain as print. Any child could find 
the alternative: there is really only one course to 

31 


Yarborough the Premier 


take.” While he spoke, he was writing rapidly: five 
minutes later he handed to his brother the complete 
skeleton of a document. Edmund glanced over it, 
and shook his head-, smiling. 

“It is delightfully expedient, but it is immoral. I 
prefer our own. By-the-bye, how did you become 
possessed of it?” 

“You know I listened at the window?” 

“But whither did you betake yourself when Sa- 
vile looked out?” 

“I slipped across the porch and in at the dining- 
room window. The rest was easy, for I can read 
Savile’s cipher.” 

“Christian, I believe you have dealings with the 
devil. Where did you learn that?” 

‘ ‘ The devil would not suit my book at all : he has 
far too strong a will of his own. I make friends fre- 
quently with men who may serve as tools ; but when 
I want secret information, I try to procure it my- 
self. In the present instance, I took advantage of 
his stay at Chanston to pick the lock of his desk and 
ransack it for the key.” 

“But he was our guest!” Edmund exclaimed. 

“Precisely: that was why I got you to ask him.” 

Edmund had borne with a good deal : but it seem- 
ed to him that Christian, in this cynical avowal, had 
overstepped the extreme limits of the tolerable. 
“And this — this is my brother!” he said. “ Because 
of our relationship I am to shield you, whom I knew 
before to be a liar and a thief, and now learn to be a 
spy! Well, I will not do it: I’ll go with the whole 
story to Lord Ferdinand, and let him be judge.” 

32 


Yarborough the Premier 


“You will never do it.” 

“On the contrary, I am about to do it.” 

Christian laughed in his face. “Not you!” he 
said scornfully. 

“Why not?” 

“You are caught in the toils of your own fine- 
gentlemanly casuistry. You will never do it, be- 
cause it would be the ruin of me and the saving of 
yourself.” 

“And why should I not save myself at your ex- 
pense?” 

“Oh, you love me too well for that,” Christian 
said. He leaned back, crossing his legs and look- 
ing full into Edmund’s eyes. The indolent, sa- 
tirical face expressed the very coquetry of cyni- 
cism. “Fascination is one of my weapons: when 
a man is too dangerous to be fought, I win him by 
personal charm. You hate me at the moment, 
but it is a long way to Downing Street, and you 
will be ready to give your life for me before you 
get there.” 

Edmund put up his hand to his throat, as if suffo- 
cating: there was a mist over his eyes, through 
which his brother regarded him, intolerably trium- 
phant. “Masterly analysis, yours!” he whispered. 
“And true — oh yes, true — ” 

“I reckoned on your fastidious sense of honour,” 
Christian explained. “It is a quality which I can 
gauge to a nicety in others, although it is a forbidden 
luxury to myself.” 

“Kith and kin, you and I,” Edmund repeated 
softly; then added, in a flash of spiteful satisfaction, 
33 


3 


Yarborough the Premier | 

“Thank Heaven, I’m the elder son: Chanston does 
not fall to a charlatan.’’ 

Christian got up and went to the window ; he un- 
barred the shutters, threw up the sash, and leaned 
out. “Curse the fog!’’ he said petulantly. “And 
curse the city too, for a Babylon of fools! Who in 
all this human ant-heap is worth serving? What 
scope for ambition is there in pulling the strings that 
jerk these dwarfed and starveling marionettes? 
See what desirable things life has to give me, if I did 
but stretch out my hand! There’s love, holding the 
key of heaven and hell: there’s music, that treas- 
ures the core of the world’s passion in a handful 
of chords: starlight and dawn, lonely snow-peaks, 
valleys drenched in day-long sunshine, Italian hills 
where the grapes grow. I could make my life one 
symphony of delight with death for the closing 
chord of the tonic : and you call me a charlatan be- 
cause I give it all up and take instead the crawling, 
strangling fogs of London.’’ 

Edmund took his hands and held them fast. 
“Christian, why do you sacrifice yourself for noth- 
ing, to an ambition? Give it up,’’ he pleaded. 
“Keep your honour clean and come away with 
me!’’ 

“No!” Christian put him aside and held him 
away. “Off with you, tempter! Thank Heaven, 
you can’t stay in England; you would certainly get 
into hot water if you were cross-examined. And I 
will not go one step of the way with you: I must 
go through with this work that I’ve begun. Be- 
sides,’’ he added with a flash of his old mocking 
34 


Yarborough the Premier 


manner, “my honour is pretty deeply mortgaged 
already.” 

“Is the prize worth winning?” 

“Ten thousand times, no! To be premier is to be 
head fool among fools, rat royal among rodents. 
But there’s work to do, and none but I to do it.” 

“You write your ego in capital letters, boy.” 

“ I mean to write it across the empire before I die.” 
He paused, collecting himself. “I have a fancy to 
hear you say you forgive me.” 

“You are unpardonable: yet I do forgive you. 
One must needs forgive, when one says good-bye.” 

“Is this, then, good-bye?” 

“I shall be out of England to-morrow, perhaps 
never to set foot in it again. It is better so, for I 
cannot lie to shield you: I can’t dishonour myself, 
even for my brother’s sake.” 

“What it is to be an honourable man!” Christian 
said with his deep tone of irony. “But I can see 
that you had better go: and I think neither of us 
care for long farewells, so let this be the last, the 
last perhaps forever. But you have to promise me 
one thing before you go.” 

“And that is — ” 

“If I don’t see you again for many years, don’t 
dream that I’ve forgotten. I’m not of a stock that 
forgets. I let you go now, and gladly. I am not 
fond of making confidences, and you’ve a hateful 
trick of winning them from me. But I want — I 
must see you again before I die.” 

“That is a long way off: you are not yet thirty.” 

“Am I not? I lose count of time: nights and 
35 


Yarborough the Premier 


days count double, when I am working. I have 
another thirty years of work before me, I suppose: 
then age will come in one watch of the night, and 
death, let us hope, in the next. But when I’m old, 
and lonely, and hated, and famous, come back to me, 
Edmund, if it were only for a day! England is no 
place for you now, with your impracticable pride 
and sensitiveness: but it will all be forgotten thirty 
years hence: what is there that is not forgotten in 
thirty years?” 

“One thing only, as I believe,” Edmund answered 
simply: “and that is kinship. Never fear, boy, 
you’re not so easily rid of me: I’ll be back in less 
than thirty years.” 

Yarborough’s ironical laugh rang out. “Come, 
then, and you shall hear me splintering lances with 
your colleagues in debate. Faith! which will win, 
they or I? And all alike so infinitely unprofitable!” 
His voice dropped suddenly to a pitch of weariness. 
“Fool that I am to care for it, I that have ruined 
you to win it! There, it’s late: I heard a clock strike 
eleven just now. Never write to me: let it be* as 
if you were dead and I had nothing to hope for but 
your resurrection . Good-night . ’ ’ 

It was one of those partings which are like death, 
but worse than death, because they are decided not 
by impartial destiny, but by the characters of the 
actors. With other men it might have been differ- 
ent: with these two it could not be different. 
Edmund was an exile from the land of his birth, 
Christian was a prisoner there: and the seas of a 
stronger and deeper estrangement came between 

36 


Yarborough the Premier 


them, and bore them wider apart than the ebb and 
flow of the world’s driving tides. Dead to each 
other, they separated; and Edmund went out into 
the night, while Christian stood long, with bent head, 
reviewing his own dishonour, the ruin of his brother, 
and all the loss and peril probably to be borne in 
pursuit of an inexplicable ambition. 


Ill 


The Broad, Vine-Sheltered Path 

N ext day, when Christian Yarborough threw 
back his shutters, the fog had cleared ; beams of 
gold streaked the swarthy dun shadows of B exton 
Street, the narrow windows sparkled behind their 
bars in the wet May sunshine, and all its gloomy 
roofs were ceiled with morning turquoise. An adept 
in the art of turning the key on disagreeable ideas, 
he threw off, by a strong effort of will, all memory of 
his brother’s ruin, which was the only detail of his 
scandalous coup likely to affect his spirits, and 
turned resolutely to the business of the day. The 
idea of an impromptu supper-party had just occur- 
red to him as desirable, and he was making out the 
menu in his head, when his meditations were broken 
by the appearance of Mainwaring Savile, dressed in 
rough gray clothes and a Panama hat, and treading 
the irregular pavement with a rapid and easy step. 
He was possessed of Yarborough’s address in Bex- 
ton Street in the most natural way in the world, for 
he happened to be his landlord : and his visit was the 
less surprising in that Yarborough, who was often 
careless of his own concerns, had omitted to go 
through the formality of paying his last quarter’s 
rent. Withdrawing from the window, Yarborough 

38 


Yarborough the Premier 


hurriedly disposed of various incriminating docu- 
ments, including the treaty itself, took out his pock- 
et-book, and counted upon the table the exact 
amount of his debt, indulging in a silent laugh as he 
did so : he did not for a moment suppose that Sa- 
vile had called to collect his rent in person, but he 
was sure he could twist the debt into a -pretext for 
making Savile cross, and making people cross was 
one of the dearest joys of his life : he was so clever at 
it. He appeared on the threshold just as Savile 
raised his hand to the bell. 

“Come in, my dear fellow,” he said: “I really 
must apologise for keeping you waiting; I’m afraid 
I’m a shocking man of business. However, it’s 
ready for you now, if you don’t mind coming up- 
stairs.” 

Somewhat mystified, Savile followed Yarborough 
into the room, which bore traces of having been hur- 
riedly cleared for action, and seated himself in the 
only unoccupied chair, towards which Yarborough 
waved his hand. 

“Perhaps you’d better count it,” he said, pushing 
over the money. “I never could keep accounts: 
no Yarborough can.” 

“What the deuce do you expect me to do with 
this?” Savile inquired, poking the little heap of gold 
with his forefinger. 

“As a personal matter. I’d rather you didn’t give 
it to the Additional Curates’ Fund,” his host replied 
airily. It is to be feared that Yarborough, as a rule, 
recognised the limitations of good taste only to 
break them. “But that’s wholly a question for 
39 


Yarborough the Premier 


yourself to settle. You did call to collect my rent, 
didn’t you?” 

“Rent!” Savile exclaimed, suddenly catching 
Yarborough’s drift, and he swept the coins aside 
with an angry jerk of his arm. “No; I called about 
that treaty you stole — chut! don’t lie. Where’s the 
good?” 

“I never lie,” said Yarborough haughtily. He 
was leaning against the mantel-piece, immobile as 
any statue, and his features wore a look of pride and 
conscious integrity which he had copied, before a 
looking-glass, from a bust of Pitt the younger. 

“Settle that with your brother.” This was a 
home-thrust, for it evinced more knowledge than 
Yarborough had anticipated: but he merely lifted 
his eyebrows. “I came to tell you what I’m going 
to do.” 

Yarborough bowed. 

“Edmund Yarborough chooses to shield you. 
Why he should throw away his life for the sake of 
a swindling vaurien with a theft to his record, I can’t 
pretend to say : probably he does it to save the fam- 
ily honour, for nine men out of ten will still believe 
him innocent, whereas nine hundred and ninety- 
nine out of a thousand would prima facie reckon you 
up for guilty.” 

“Your theory is so attractive, and has so much to 
commend it, that I am really quite sorry it isn’t 
true.” 

“I sha’n’t justify my knowledge unless you drive 
me to it. Not from generous motives — don’t dream 
it: but principally because I don’t care to bring a 
40 


Yarborough the Premier 


charge unless I can prove it up to the hilt, which I 
can’t do here in the teeth of Edmund’s obstinacy. 
I’ve strong circumstantial evidence, but that’s all. 
I could kick you out of the clubs, but I couldn’t get 
you expelled from the House. Also I’d rather not 
handle political dirt if I can help it: it’s a revolting 
business.” 

“If your political campaigns are conducted on the 
lines of the present interview, I should imagine that 
the business might easily become extremely revolt- 
ing not only to you, but to any one who was com- 
pelled to be in your society for ten minutes at a 
time.” 

Savile waited till Yarborough had done, and then 
resumed exactly as if he had never spoken. “There- 
fore I don’t propose to make public anything I 
know except under one contingency.” 

“And that is — ?” 

“You aren’t the kind of man we want in our 
House of Commons. You’re what my uncle would 
call ‘bad form.’” 

“The House being, of course, the criterion of good 
form — especially when it goes into Committee over 
the Home Rule Bill on a Thursday night.” 

“Don’t know about that: but I allow they’re all 
gentlemen, anyhow. And if I couldn’t prove my 
case to satisfy a judge, I could make it very, very 
awkward for you. You see, you’ve got what they 
call an infelix reputation.” 

“Well, name your condition.” 

“You’ve got to give up politics.” 

“Give up politics? If My dear Savile, you’re 

41 


Yarborough the Premier 


mad, or chaffing/’ Incredulity gave way to amuse- 
ment, for Savile was evidently in earnest, and Yar- 
borough could not help laughing. Savile plainly 
did not see that he had said anything very re- 
markable, and still less that he was likely to in- 
flict any particular loss upon his country by depriv- 
ing it of Yarborough’s services; and Yarborough 
liked an honest snub, and never dreamed of re- 
senting it, though he could not help feeling as 
if he had received a douche of cold water in his 
face. 

“I’ll ruin you if you don’t.’’ 

“This is an absurd proposal,’’ Yarborough said 
more seriously. “I am not rich. I have only a 
younger brother’s portion. Politics have been my 
trade, not my pastime. How do you expect me to 
earn my bread, if you debar me from the practice of 
a craft to which I have served so long an appren- 
ticeship?’’ 

“What do I care? Starve, if you like.’’ 

“In fine, this is blackmail.’’ 

“Blackmail?’’ repeated Savile. 

“Yes, blackmail: levied upon a man whom, by 
your professed inability to prove him guilty, you 
are constrained in honour to believe innocent : levied 
also with the obvious end of facilitating your own 
advancement by getting rid of a rival whom you 
are pleased to consider dangerous.’’ 

“So bluff is your game? I might have guessed 
it.’’ 

“You might, if you could have brought yourself 
to admit that I might be innocent.’’ 

42 


Yarborough the Premier 

A gleam of amusement travelled over Savile’s 
features. “You think you can hold me up that 
way?” he asked. 

“That racy, idiomatic English of yours, which has 
so strong a flavour of the veldt and the prairie and 
the road-agent’s camp where you learned it, is hard- 
ly applicable here. I leave you your threats: I 
threaten no man. But I think it only fair to tell 
you that not one word you have said will ever have 
the slightest weight with me.” 

“That’s frank, anyway. So you mean to face the 
music, do you?” 

“Surely you, as a pure-minded Conservative, 
would not ask me to abandon my party, my prin- 
ciples, and my constituents?” Yarborough asked, 
looking very like the popular conception of Mephis- 
topheles as he spoke, for he had such a hearty dis- 
dain for the gods whose aegis he invoked that he 
could not wholly banish it from his mobile counte- 
nance. Savile laughed outright. 

“I don’t ask you to forswear your principles: I 
know that’s what you simply couldn’t endure to 
do,” he answered, rendering sneer for sneer. “ How- 
ever, I’ve laid down my terms: you can take them 
or leave them.” 

“If I hold my tongue in the House, you’ll hold 
yours out of it? Thanks, the bargain is hardly 
equitable, for Hthink I could do you more harm than 
you could ever do to me.” 

“You mean I can’t damage a reputation which is 
pretty well damaged already?” 

Yarborough turned on him like a flash of light- 
43 


Yarborough the Premier 

ning, no longer the cynical, jesting devil of Goethe, 
but a Lucifer all fire, quick and armed for war, 

“You dare to threaten me? Yes: words are 
cheap. Act on what you say, and I’ll indict you 
for slander, plead my own cause, and mulct you in 
;;£iooo damages and the nickname of a fool.’’ 

“Why, you infernal scoundrel, you know you stole 
the treaty!’’ Savile exclaimed: and then sharply, as 
he saw Yarborough’s hand go up to his breast, “By 
the Lord! he’s got it in his pocket.’’ 

It was the literal truth, and Yarborough, by that 
slight, involuntary gesture, had betrayed his secret, 
as thousands of men before him have betrayed like 
secrets by a similar movement. He thought his last 
hour had come, as Savile stood and looked down at 
him, towering over him in the pride of his great 
strength: he stood at bay, white but self-possessed, 
racking his fertile brains for a way of escape. 

“I want what you’ve got in your pocket,’’ Savile 
said, his tone menacingly quiet, and stretching out 
an inexorable scarred hand. “Give it here, quick!’’ 

“I’ll die first,’’ Yarborough cried, springing back 
with a theatrical air of defiance. 

“Ha! so you admit it, do you? Give it quietly, 
unless you’d rather have me knock you down and 
search you.’’ 

“Take care what you do, Savile,’’ Yarborough 
said slowly, meeting Savile’s lowering eyes with a 
steady, penetrating glance. “I have a paper here 
which you can no doubt take if you choose : that I 
value it you may divine, since I carry it against my 
heart. Nevertheless, it is not the treaty.’’ 

44 


Yarborough the Premier 

“What is it then?” Savile asked, without the 
slightest tinge of credulity. 

“A woman’s letter.” 

“Sorry I don’t believe you,” Savile said, and 
paused. “Well, show me the envelope,” he added. 

“You know the handwriting.” 

The merit of Yarborough’s lies consisted partly in 
the aplomb with which they were delivered, and 
partly in the dexterity with which they were framed 
to fit the temper of the person addressed. Savile 
had all the antique virtues including chivalry, and 
Yarborough, though his personal acquaintance with 
that quality was of the scantiest, was clever enough 
to turn it to good account. “You can take it by 
force if you choose,” he said, with an air of declining 
to answer for the consequences which made Savile 
feel uncomfortable. Yarborough was a man who 
went much into society, and had wit and beauty on 
his side. True, it was not a probable coincidence 
that the writing of his correspondent should be 
familiar to Savile, but it was quite on the cards: 
they moved in the same set, and notes of invita- 
tion are not, unfortunately, type - written. And 
then the mischief was done, the treaty was pub- 
lished: nothing was now at stake except Savile’s 
private sense of justice, his revengeful temper, 
and his reluctance to be duped. Yarborough stood 
with his hands in his pockets, his finely cut nostrils 
quivering, watching Savile with dark, gleaming 
eyes. At length Savile stepped back, and Yar- 
borough drew a quick breath, but not of triumph. 
Rather his look was that of a man who sees the 
45 


Yarborough the Premier 


gate of life shut in his face, and himself thrust back 
into perdition. 

“You’ve won,’’ Savile said concisely. “Won all 
along the line. I sha’n’t face an action for slander, 
and I can’t press my advantage against the honour 
of a hypothetical lady. I’m not your dupe, though. 
I know you’re lying, and some day I’ll prove it: I’ll 
get the truth out of you some day, mind that.’’ 

“That, I trust, you will always do,’’ replied Yar- 
borough suavely. “I am handicapped in my polit- 
ical career by an old-fashioned disrelish of lies : it is 
the tax upon a long genealogy.’’ 

Savile leaned against the wall and gave way to 
silent laughter: he had found the whole scene comi- 
cal, but Yarborough’s closing utterance struck him 
as particularly rich in humour. He had to acknowl- 
edge himself beaten : moral indignation could effect 
nothing against Yarborough’s truly extraordinary 
impudence and inimitable power of acting. Yar- 
borough watched him coldly, then turned away with 
a shrug of his shoulders. “You contrive to be 
unnecessarily offensive,’’ he remarked: and as if 
taking a sudden determination, walked over to the 
door and threw it open. “ I will not detain you any 
longer, Mr. Savile,’’ he said, with a ceremonious air. 

Savile followed him down the stairs, and was pres- 
ently shown into the street, Yarborough standing 
bareheaded as he passed out. He managed very 
adroitly to throw something of the air of an ejection 
over S a vile’s retirement from the field, as if he were 
a gaoler discharging a prisoner who had served his 
term, with a caution not to do it again. Savile 
46 


Yarborough the Premier 


paused half-way down the street, and looked back at 
Yarborough’s windows with the expression of a man 
who knows that he has been cheated and doesn’t like 
it, but sees no way of getting out of it. 

“And the unique part of the thing is,’’ he said 
aloud, with a mixture of wrath and humour, “that 
the whole place is mine, lock, stock, barrel, and clear- 
ing-rod. The fellow has had the impudence to turn 
me out of my own house — and it appears that he 
hasn’t even paid his last quarter’s rent!” 

Yarborough’s bachelor dinners, got up on the spur 
of the moment, with an artful appearance of artful- 
ness, were already so well known and popular that 
he could generally count upon a good attendance at 
twelve hours’ notice. He invited his guests, not to 
the dismal purlieus of St. Martin’s Lane, but to a 
fashionable suite of rooms in a fashionable quarter, 
and the first floor of No. 27 Pierpont Street was a 
favorite rendezvous of observant politicians, vague 
diplomats, and resourceful gentlemen connected with 
the Press. 

Artist or historian might have been glad to de- 
lineate the quintet of powerful heads gathered round 
his table at ten o’clock that night, dimly visible be- 
hind clouds of smoke. They were men of widely 
divergent types, vigorous faces, bearing the impress 
of exceptional forces: the^ principal link between 
them was their common interest in the Liberal cause. 
The place of honour at Yarborough’s right hand was 
given to a little fair-haired man with sleepy eyes and 
a baby mouth, who walked up to the door carrying a 
47 


Yarborough the Premier 


badly rolled-up umbrella, and rid himself in the hah 
of a little pair of galoshes: this was Cecil Carteret, 
editor of the first Liberal journal of the day, and 
deeply versed in all party secrets. Opposite to him 
sat Lawrence Hammersley, who had held the War 
Office for a few months four years back, and looked 
forward to getting it again under the next Liberal 
ministry: a narrow, concentrated brow, raking dis- 
satisfied eyes, an absent manner and a cold tem- 
per constituted his more salient characteristics. 
Next to Carteret Yarborough had placed George 
Mallinson, a man of exceedingly kindly, calm, and 
even temper, with a plain, honest face, and a big 
forehead queerly modelled by the calculating brain 
within : for in spite of his unassuming looks he was 
a man of great financial talent and capacity, and 
might have been Chancellor of the Exchequer before 
now, had his temper been less disinterested, less 
modest, less proud, or more ambitious. Facing him 
again sat the last of Yarborough’s guests, florid and 
extravagant, as if he had just stepped off the stage 
of a French burlesque, with a heavy, sensual jaw 
and a light-blue dangerous eye. Royalist, Anarchist, 
wine-bibber, rake, and poet, but best known to fame 
as the editor of a great Parisian daily, aptly entitled 
La Vie de Boheme. He had fought a score of duels, 
not without killing his man; his body was crossed 
with scars as a map with rivers ; and he had spent no 
inconsiderable portion of his life in prison for trea- 
son and rebellion, which in France is so much worse 
than the sin of witchcraft. He took his occasional 
incarcerations in excellent part, spoke of the Con- 
48 


Yarborough the Premier 


ciergerie as his country-house, and spent his enforced 
leisure in coining stinging epigrams against Right 
and Left with impartial zeal. Yet he had a footing 
in every Parisian salon, and was adored by the lead- 
ers of the high society : he was the idol of the mob : 
Paris went into mourning for his retirement: the 
least guileful of double-dealers, he clung to all lost 
and hopeless causes, and talked treason in the street 
with the touching good faith of a child. He pas- 
sioned for liberty : oppression stifled him : he hated 
injustice as Yarborough hated a fool, or Carteret a 
drunkard. Yarborough said of him: “De Ch^tillon 
would guillotine an aristocracy, but he would not 
hurt a fly.” 

A shaded silver lamp made of the table a small 
island of light amid a sea of shadow : rich wines of 
Rheims and of Epernay sparkled with flakes of Are, 
and flung patches of tremulous hazel upon the white 
and purple skins of grapes, or the sunset bloom of 
peach and nectarine. The guests sat within the ra- 
dius of this illumination, but Yarborough escaped: 
he was seated in a tall oaken chair at the head of 
the table, his delicate arrogant face luminously pale 
against its lofty carving. The scene was repeated 
with ghostly exactness in a long mirror which leaned 
from the opposite wall: portraits in carved frames 
hung on either side, so salient and lifelike that they, 
as well as the pale verisimilitude of the mirror, 
seemed to challenge comparison with the breathing 
life below. One was that of Yarborough’s mother, 
a glorious head, richly tinted, moulded of noble 
earth : from the other frame looked down the pale, 
49 


4 


Yarborough the Premier 


mocking, spiritual face of her outcast, exiled son. 
Yarborough knew that his conduct in giving a din- 
ner-party on the very night of Edmund’s ruin was 
likely to be interpreted as an act of callous inde- 
cency, and he was warily on the alert to remove this 
impression, imperceptibly marking the limits and 
indicating the issues of conversation, like a skilful 
general in an enemy’s country. 

“That is your brother, is it not?’’ Hammersley 
said, nodding towards the ambiguous portrait with a 
disagreeable smile. 

“Yes,’’ said Yarborough, taking up the challenge, 
“that is the man who is branded as a thief by our 
friends of the opposite party.’’ 

“Absent in body, present in spirit,’’ suggested 
Hammersley. “I suppose he is out of England by 
now?’’ 

“Thee should have got him to stay, friend Yar- 
borough,’’ said Carteret. He had been brought up 
a Quaker, as he was careful to explain, and though 
since the age of eighteen he had forsworn their pro- 
fession his tongue retained some of their familiar 
tricks of dialect. “It would have been best for him 
in the long run. To be sure, thee had thy own repu- 
tation to think of, hadn’t thee?’’ 

“I don’t think Edmund could have borne to stay,’’ 
said Mallinson, the peace-maker. “ He’d have been 
always fancying some one was trying to cut him.’’ 

De Chatillon burst out laughing, and leaned back 
in his chair to wink at his host behind Hammersley’s 
back. He alone of the quartet was avowedly Yar- 
borough’s ally: Mallinson was in a state of charita- 

50 


Yarborough the Premier 


ble distress, Carteret neutral, Hammersley delight- 
ed to get a chance of annoying somebody. All this 
Yarborough plainly saw, and it amused and flattered, 
but did not provoke him. Like the great Repeal 
Minister, he rarely lost his temper except with his 
own allies. 

“ For Heaven’s sake let us talk of something more 
interesting,” he said brusquely. “Edmund is gone, 
and you know the old proverb about spilled milk. 
I, personally, am by no means prepared to weep.” 

“There we believe you,” said Hammersley. “You 
certainly bear it uncommonly well.” 

“I’ve a great admiration for fortitude,” said Car- 
teret dryly. “It’s a useful virtue.” 

“I wonder how long Lord Hayes will stick to his 
guns,” said Mallinson, making a desperate effort to 
change the conversation. “I suppose we should be 
sure of a majority at the polls.” 

“ He won’t go till he’s obliged,” said Hammersley. 
“He is — er — fond of office.” 

“Not fonder of it than most men,” pleaded Mallin- 
son. “We all like it when we can get it, I suppose.” 

“Some of us don’t,” said Carteret, with a twinkle 
in his gray eyes. “Thee don’t thyself, George Mal- 
linson: thee runs away from it. Jocelyn Hayes,” he 
added, looking at Hammersley with an air of indis- 
putable authority, “is a very disinterested man: 
he has kept his hands clean through nine years of 
power, and it isn’t every one that can say as much.” 

Hammersley shrugged his shoulders with a pro- 
nounced sneer. “He has the Privy Seal,” he re- 
marked. “I merely intimated that I didn’t sup- 
51 


Yarborough the Premier 


pose he wanted to give it up. Who would want to 
give up the Privy Seal, if they were lucky enough to 
hold it ? I appeal to our host. I ’m sure he wouldn’t 
— would you?” 

“No: I should take all the power I could get, 
and keep what I had taken.” 

“Wise man!” said Hammersley. “You’re frank, 
too: I like people to be frank — it saves a lot of 
trouble.” 

“Why do you always abuse yourself, Yarbor- 
ough?” said Mallinson, half angry and half pained. 

“Because I think it is in better taste than to be 
always abusing other people,” said Yarborough, his 
suave rich tones blended with a strong infusion of 
irony. “I appeal to Mr. Hammersley: I’m sure 
he thinks so too — don’t you?” 

There was a somewhat awkward pause, filled up 
again by De Ch^tillon’s resonant laughter. ‘ ‘ Dame ! 
I think you two might very well cry quits,” he said. 
“You have both been very rude, gentlemen, and — 
voilkl why should you not be very polite? It would 
make a change.” 

> Yarborough turned towards Hammersley with a 
smile which was irresistibly winning. “M. de 
Chatillon is a fount of good temper and good sense,” 
he said. “Mr. Hammersley, I freely acknowledge 
that I was rude. Shall we cry quits?” 

“Of course, if you like to throw your brother 
overboard, it is no business of mine,” said Ham- 
mersley. Carteret, who was peering through his 
spectacles alternately at his vis -k- vis and at his 
host, assented to this laudable sentiment with a 
52 


Yarborough the Premier 

small fatherly nod. “But for decency’s sake, at 
least.” 

“You expected me to go into mourning?” 

“ No, 111 be damned if I did!” Hammersley rapped 
out. “I’m too old for that.” 

“I beg your pardon; you didn’t expect it because 
you are one of those delightfully cynical people who 
pride themselves on holding the mirror up to nat- 
ure, before their own faces. At least, if you didn’t 
expect it, you considered it the proper thing for me 
to do. I did not. Shall I tell you why?” 

“ Good, he is going to lie,” De Chatillon murmured 
inaudibly, brushing away the words with his hand- 
kerchief. “Now then, we will see what this little 
larbrou has to say for himself.” 

Mallinson, less suspicious, looked up and smiled. 
“Why should you bother to explain?” he said. “We 
don’t think you callous. We were puzzled, that’s 
all. We believe every word you say.” 

‘ ‘ Speak for yourself, ’ ’ said Y arborough dryly. ‘ ‘ I 
do not think Mr. Hammersley is disposed to be very 
credulous. His large-hearted and sympathetic nat- 
ure revolts in disgust because, instead of sharing my 
brother’s exile, I stay in London and entertain my 
friends. But what would you think of the soldier 
who, on the eve of battle, turned back to bury his 
dead? Edmund is, politically speaking, dead: and 
we are on the eve of a great battle, I hope a great 
victory. Lord Hayes will scarcely hold office for 
another week.” 

“How do you know that?” asked Hammersley 
the sceptic. 


53 


Yarborough the Premier 


“They will be forced to resign by finding them- 
selves in a minority. Their nominal majority, as 
you know, is only twenty-three, and it’s not as 
sound as Lord Ferdinand fancies. I could name 
more than a dozen who will come over.” 

“And how might thee know that?” asked Car- 
teret. 

“Oh, does one require to be a prophet to foretell 
so much as that? Really, Carteret, one would think 
it was not you who wrote the article which exposed 
that famous treaty, and incidentally signed Ed- 
mund’s political death-warrant. You said yourself 
that it would touch our commerce, did you not? 
Very well! Since when has the Anglo-Saxon been 
such a fool as to let himself be out of pocket on a 
question of conscience? They will rat, of course.” 

“ If those are your principles, I shall rat myself at 
the first opportunity,” said Mallinson smiling. 

“Principles? He hasn’t got any,” grumbled Car- 
teret. “ Friend Christian, my lad, I see plainly that 
thee art destined to occupy a high position one of 
these days — about as high as Haman’s.” 

“And with such a stake as that to play for, you 
expect me to go into mourning for decency’s sake? 
Thanks! One can pay too high for decency. Be- 
sides, my exalted sense of patriotism forbids me to 
desert at such a critical hour.” 

“Hadn’t you better keep that for your election- 
eering placards?” sneered Hammersley. 

“No, I prefer to rely upon personal popularity,” 
said Yarborough suavely, “when I want a safe 
and simple way of fooling my electors. Are you 
54 


Yarborough the Premier 

thinking of coming back to Parliament, Mr. Ham- 
mersley. 

Hammersley was peeling a walnut, and did not 
answer for a moment. “I can’t tell if I shall stand 
or not,” he replied, in an expressionless tone. “It 
depends upon circumstances.” 

Yarborough’s and Mallinson’s eyes met, and they 
exchanged a look full of understanding. Ham- 
mersley ’s circumstances might have been resolved 
into a single question: he was a poor man, and 
bitterly unpopular in his own neighbourhood, and 
he was not likely to commit himself unless he had a 
definite prospect of winning his seat. 

“This will be a check to young Savile’s ambition,” 
said Mallinson. “He has got on very well so far. 
Wonderfully well for his years, we should have said 
in my day: but all the great men are young now, 
except Lord Hayes and me.” 

“The country wants men,” said Yarborough: 
“it has ceased to make a fetich of gout and gray 
hairs.” 

“Pitt was prime-minister at twenty-four,” said 
Hammersley, recurring to his disagreeable sneer. 
“Perhaps you hope to tread in his steps?” 

Yarborough turned and tilted back his head, look- 
ing at him side- ways from under dropped lashes: 
the whole pose was an incarnation of indolent and 
rather haughty irony. “When I am premier, Mr. 
Hammersley,” he said, “I’ll give you the War 
Office.” 

It was decidedly a peculiar and pregnant moment. 
No one knew exactly what Hammersley would do, 
55 


Yarborough the Premier 


but all felt that he would resent the equivocal im- 
pertinence of such a promise, doubly stinging be- 
cause Hammersley’s last and only experience of the 
War Office had left him a disappointed man, noto- 
riously difficult to work with, and therefore unlikely 
to succeed. What happened was, of course, just 
what no one expected. Hammersley’s eyes dropped 
before the arrogant glance, and he sat dumb. Mal- 
linson, least worldly of men, fancied that he was 
touched with sympathy for Yarborough’s generous 
youth: Carteret, more suspicious, wondered if Yar- 
borough had managed to get him in some way into 
his power: De Chatillon laughed under his breath 
and muttered, “Richard’s himself again.’’ The 
Frondeur was right, for Yarborough had won simply 
by self -revelation, a weapon oddly potent in his 
hands, but apt to leave him, as now, whiter and less 
lifelike than the portraits between which his image 
was reflected. 

An interchange of glances passed between Car- 
teret and De Chatillon: then, leaning forward, they 
began to talk in the whispered French of old friends. 
Hammersley sat silent, neither speaking nor listen- 
ing, occupied with his own thoughts, which prob- 
ably he did not find pleasant company. Mallinson 
got up and came to Yarborough’s side. 

“You look dead tired,’’ he said gently. “You’ve 
been working too hard, and I don’t believe you get 
enough sleep. Don’t overdo yourself: it’s a capital 
mistake.’’ 

“What paternal care!’’ said Yarborough, at once 
amused and touched. “I’m not going to.’’ 

56 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Mind you don’t, then,’’ said Mallinson. “Well, 
I must be off : I keep early hours, and it’s past twelve 
already. Good-night.’’ 

His departure broke up the party. Within half 
an hour Yarborough’s guests, with the exception of 
De Chatillon, who was returning to Paris next day, 
were dispersed to their several dwellings: Carteret, 
the last to go, wringing Yarborough’s fingers and 
wishing him “Good -night, friend,’’ with a long- 
suffering smile. Yarborough stood for a moment 
watching him, as he strolled down the street, with a 
musing, almost wistful look: when he turned from 
the closed door, he found himself the object of De 
Ch^tillon’s closest scrutiny. He laughed to himself. 

“Come into my study: I never sit in that room.’’ 

“It has ghosts for you, I suppose. Thanks, mon 
ami.’’ 

De Chatillon followed him into a smaller room, 
heavily curtained, furnished with many bookshelves, 
and lit by the mellow glow of a shaded lamp. “You 
keep late hours, then?’’ 

“Late? I keep no hours at all. Some day I’ll 
take you round and show you my other rooms, where 
I work. No one knows of them except my land- 
lord, not even my valet Mornington, who believes 
himself to be confidential. He thinks he does, and 
is sufficiently flattered by my confidence to guard it 
like death from the other servants. I like playing 
off fools against one another.’’ 

“You prefer to make a mystery, even when there 
is no secret : that is adorable in a woman, but in a 
man it is tiresome.’’ 


57 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I make no mystery. I hold my tongue and the 
mystery is made for me. Besides, I must have a 
place where I can be alone. You know that feel- 
ing?” 

“I have felt it in prison,” said the Frondeur, with 
a grimace. “But, larbrou, say now: how will it go?” 

“With Savile and his men?” Yarborough stood 
by the mantel-piece, propping his deep brows upon 
his hand: his voice, which he suffered now to fall 
into its natural inflections, was rich, flexible, and 
clear as steel. ” I think they’ll have to go. It was 
a simply marvellous piece of luck, Carteret getting 
hold of that treaty. I believe they were actually 
going to produce papers in a few months’ time.” 

“You believe ? You know a ver’ great deal. Who 
tells you these things?” 

“Naturally I take care to be well informed upon 
all such minor details. Since I can’t heal the lepers 
or raise the dead, I find the next best way to adver- 
tise my genius is to display a superior knowledge of 
significant trifles.” 

‘ ‘ Any young child can be profane : it is ver’ easy 
and cheap. And when they do go out?” 

“Then — why, then I shall still play jackal to 
Wemyss’s lion,” Yarborough answered, in a tone of 
singular irony. ‘ ‘ Age and experience are preferred 
before capacity and impudence by this wonderful 
Constitution of ours, which makes a man a hereditary 
legislator because his great-great-grandmother whee- 
dled a title out of Charles II.” 

“But, my faith! one pities the lion that is served 
by such a jackal!” said De Chatillon dryly. “Chris- 
S8 


Yarborough the Premier 

tian, my friend, learn that if you fail it will not be 
from excess of modesty.” 

“Modesty? The excuse which cowards make for 
not doing what they daren’t do.” 

“Allow me to observe that for a true philosopher 
monsieur is somewhat dogmatic. But tell me now, 
how did you persuade Monsieur Hammersley to 
grace your table?” 

“I was brought into contact with him when he 
held the War Office. I was young then, and almost 
unknown: and I made a speech in his defence one 
night when he was hard pressed in debate. The fool 
had omitted to get up his facts: I had foreseen the 
attack, and was armed with every conceivable au- 
thority, and all manner of statistics. That made a 
keen impression on him, which I have worked up 
since by the aid of a little judicious flattery. But 
he is an intolerable nuisance with his barbed, awk- 
ward speeches: I knew I should have to read him 
a lesson some day, as I did to-night. I don’t think 
he will ask after Edmund again with any arriere- 
pensee.” 

“And my friend, the little Carteret?” 

“Personal attraction. He likes me, and I puzzle 
him.” 

“And Monsieur Mallinson?” 

“What a catechism! I was at Oxford with his 
favourite nephew, a well-meaning but rather weak 
young man, who imagined he could beat me at 
billiards. I got him into a scrape, and then got him 
out of it. He recognised my hand in the second 
transaction, but not in the first. Then I worked 
59 


Yarborough the Premier 


him up into a proper state of remorse, got him to 
confess the whole affair to his charitable uncle, and 
so earned Mallinson’s undying gratitude.” 

“Diable!” said Constant, after a pause: “this is 
not a very agreeable anecdote that you have just re- 
lated, my friend.” 

“Oh, go to bed,” said .Yarborough, laughing. 
“You must be half asleep if you take all these fables 
for truth. You asked me questions, and I answered 
them: well, was there any harm in that.? If you 
had asked no questions — ” 

“But were they lies?” asked De Chatillon doubt- 
fully. 

“Lies assuredly, invented to shock one who I had 
fancied could not be shocked. All the same, I think 
you expect too much from me. Self is my watch- 
word: my ambition is purely personal. I care not 
a straw for country, party, friends, or even kindred, 
provided I can laureate my own brows and line my 
own pockets. You shouldn’t forget these little 
facts.” 

And he held the door open for Constant de 
Chatillon to go to his room. 


IV 


Flower o’ the Peach 
WEEK later, the Liberal papers rang with a 



r\ shout of triumph. Wemyss, the leader of the 
Opposition, introduced a vote of want of confidence, 
and carried it by a bare majority, it is true, but still 
by a majority. Lord Hayes dissolved Parliament, 
and the Conservatives appealed to the country. 

For nine years Lord Hayes and Mainwaring Sa- 
vile’s aristocratic uncle had held undisputed sway, 
while their enemies, under the ineffectual leadership 
of Randolph Wemyss, a man so completely neglected 
by public acknowledgment that people had never 
given up speaking of him as Mr. Wemyss, wasted 
their strength in spasmodic vituperation, or in clever 
catchwords, those will-o’-the-wisps that dance so 
brightly over the quagmire of political sloth. The 
Liberals were in fact without a leader: the party 
was disorganised and rent by jealousies and factions, 
and though there was plenty of intellect in their 
ranks they had not a single adherent of sufficient 
force of character or purity of aim to drive that 
restive team, to impose discipline upon those hete- 
rogeneous forces. “The mediocre Mr. Randolph 
Wemyss,’’ as he was called by the free-lances even 
of his own party, contented himself with boring the 


6i 


Yarborough the Premier 


House at periodical intervals, while the Conserva- 
tives sped unchecked on their triumphal progress. 

And now the end had come in a moment, like 
thunder out of a clear sky. It was all very well to 
talk of appealing to the country; it looked well in 
news-sheets or on electioneering posters ; but in their 
secret councils it was admitted that the country, 
which usually oscillates with the regularity of a pen- 
dulum from one set of promise-breakers to the other, 
felt that it had done enough for the Conservatives, 
and had no intention of giving them a third lease of 
office. Lord Hayes took his position very philo- 
sophically, and declared that as soon as the results 
of the general election were known, he meant to go 
into Essex and turn his attention to the breeding of 
mules, geese and pigs: and he contrived to imply, in 
a delicately indefinite way, that he expected his po- 
litical experience to be of service to him in these 
agricultural pursuits. He had been very much an- 
noyed by the affair of the treaty. Brusque and aris- 
tocratic, he had always had his own way with his 
suave colleague at the Foreign Office, and together 
they kept the journalists at bay: but that inscrutable 
shrine had been violated by Christian Yarborough’s 
scandalous coup, the riddle of the Sphinx was told to 
all the world, the policy of ministers was exposed to 
criticism and caricature, and, what was worse. Lord 
Hayes found himself very nearly entangled in a 
European war with a justly outraged and highly in- 
dignant power. Edmund Yarborough was sacri- 
ficed without one pang of remorse, and might think 
himself lucky to have got off so cheaply: no one 
62 


Yarborough the Premier 


supposed that he had committed any crime beyond 
that of being unlucky, but his disgrace did very well 
as a pledge of good faith to the contracting party. 
By such means war was averted, but the negotia- 
tions were broken off: indeed, English public opin- 
ion would scarcely have allowed them to proceed. 
The premier shrugged his shoulders but kept his 
temper. Lord Ferdinand was unable to imitate his 
sang-froid: he was an odd mixture of sensitiveness 
and vanity, spoke of his electors as “the mob,” and 
acknowledged no man as a gentleman unless he 
could show his sixteen quarterings. In appearance 
he was almost as tall as his nephew, but of slender 
and elegant physique: a fine-lipped, blond-haired 
Saxon, graceful in dress and manners, but with the 
features of an ascetic. And, like many another 
haughty general. Lord Ferdinand underestimated 
the strength of his foe; a nine-years’ run of power 
had made him forget that England is after all a 
democracy. He looked upon the warfare of politics 
as a duel, or at most a tourney of nobles, and re- 
fused to believe that belted knights could be tum- 
bled from their saddles by an attack of the Lincoln 
Green. What puzzled him most was the spirit of 
discipline which marked the Liberal attack, and the 
knack of saying the right thing and sticking to it 
suddenly displayed by Mr. Wemyss: and on the 
morning after the dissolution he let his breakfast get 
cold while he explained to his nephew his conviction 
that his downfall must be attributed to the diabolical 
manoeuvres of an unknown personal enemy. Savile 
went on stirring his coffee with a bored expression 
63 


Yarborough the Premier 

which annoyed Lord Ferdinand, who felt that he had 
hit upon a new and happy theory. 

“I cannot understand it, Mainwaring: I cannot, 
indeed. It is quite inexplicable to me. Some one 
must be at the back of it, you know: nothing will 
ever make me believe that Randolph Wemyss com- 
posed his own speech last night.” 

“He has a private secretary, you know,” Savile 
permitted himself to say. 

Lord Ferdinand shook his head. “So Hayes 
says: in fact, he is quite bewitched by the fellow 
and prophesies great things for him. But not yet — 
he is too young. The country prefers gray hairs 
and ripe experience.” 

“Yes, when it is ripe,” said Savile laconically. 
“Better is a wise child than an old and foolish 
king.” 

“Young men never have any judgment,” said 
Lord Ferdinand, stung by a fancied personal appli- 
cation. 

“He is over thirty, and awfully clever: knows 
how to make himself annoying, too. Dark horse, 
you know, and all that.” 

“My dear Mainwaring, I wish you would speak 
more correctly. Few things are of such importance 
as the formation of a truly elegant and cultivated 
style. May I ask you what you mean by a ‘dark 
horse’?” 

“Come, sir, you aren’t on the Bench,” Savile said, 
half laughing and half impatient. His chivalry was 
extended to all women and a few men : he had none 
to spare for Edmund Yarborough, but with Lord 
64 


Yarborough the Premier 


Ferdinand he was always gentle and considerate. 
“I mean that I wouldn’t trust him farther than I 
could see him: I’ve had one or two pretty sharp 
skirmishes with him already, and I’ve a notion that 
we may come to a fight, one of these days. I’d like 
to try conclusions with him, and that’s a fact.” 

‘‘Surely not in the physical arena?” said Lord 
Ferdinand, raising his pencilled eyebrows. ‘‘He is 
only about five feet high, I believe.” 

Lord Ferdinand, like his nephew, was over six 
feet in height, and had no opinion of small men, de- 
spite the evidence of history. 

‘‘As a matter of fact, I believe he stands five feet 
seven in his socks : but intellectually he’s a Colossus. 
He gets up all Wemyss’s speeches for him, and it’s 
queer to watch his face when Wemyss is on his legs. 
I’d back him to be at the bottom of any mischief 
that’s going.” 

“But he could have had nothing to do with the 
theft of the treaty,” objected Lord Ferdinand. 
“Recollect that it led to his brother’s disgrace.” 

Savile smiled grimly, and shook his head. “ As to 
that, I can’t say, sir,” he answered. “But this I’d 
swear to — if it weren’t for him, the Opposition would 
simply collapse like a paper bag.” 

Lord Ferdinand sniffed, and changed the subject: 
he had a healthy British dislike to all proposals 
or explanations which did not emanate from him- 
self. And Savile abandoned it gladly, conscious of 
a temptation to say more than he ought. 

Meanwhile Yarborough himself was working hard- 
er than a day-labourer or a mill-hand at his un- 
s 65 


Yarborough the Premier 


grateful task. Amid the press of petty duties which 
crowd the hours of the private secretary to a premier 
designate, he had also his own deeper studies and 
more absorbing problems. His days he spent in 
public business, in interviewing editors and press- 
men, or in drilling his timorous chief, who was hor- 
rified to find himself once more a man of whom 
much was expected, and who showed a strong de- 
sire to recalcitrate the whole affair and flee for peace 
into the Chiltern Hundreds: and by night he gave 
himself, with blood at fever-heat, to the study of 
foreign and constitutional history, annotating, com- 
paring, extracting, revising, compiling till his veins 
tingled with electric fire, and the wearied brain peo- 
pled the dark with sparkling pictures, vivid as the 
dreams of delirium. 

With all his toil and vigils, he grew neither sick 
nor nervous, abstained from all appearance of hurry, 
and spent his few leisure moments in thinking out a 
plan of campaign for the coming election. He had 
entered the House as member for Staines, and his re- 
election had never been opposed, for the Yarbor- 
oughs were great people by tradition in that division 
of the county, and popular from of old with the 
keen-eyed traders and seafaring community of that 
dark and sunny city by the sea. Now it appeared 
that Hammersley wanted a seat, and as he was not 
the sort of man to fight his way in against opposition, 
Y arborough felt that it would be a graceful and pol- 
itic act to resign in his favour, and win him an easy 
triumph by the aid of the Yarborough interest. As 
for himself, he had a plan in view which offered a 
66 


Yarborough the Premier 

toss-up between disaster and glory: and his mood 
was not one to admit the chance of failure, except 
to add piquancy to the flavour of success. 

A few days after the dissolution, while still un- 
decided, he went out an hour before sunset to 
stretch his legs and get a breath of air, and sought 
his favourite haunt, the busy Strand. Against the 
bluebell sky of June, enriched with evening gold, the 
tall crooked buildings stood carven out of shadow: 
the City throbbed with eternal inquietude and tran- 
sitory energy: the churches of St. Mary and St. 
Clement, islanded between dividing streams of 
traffic, lifted their slender spires into the brilliance of 
sunset, as if protesting, by their own immutable and 
golden calm against the fever-fret of men toiling below 
for the gold that perisheth. He walked as far as Lud- 
gate Circus, and there paused, at the shelter in the 
middle of New Bridge Cucet, to watch the changes of 
that teeming arena. A cloud of sunlit smoke hung 
over the dark bridge where the trains crawled inces- 
sant, drowning the roar of London in the hollow clan- 
gour and thunder of labouring iron and steel: every 
averted arch or doorway stood black, like a pit of 
shadow against the flood of daffodil light. A po- 
liceman, England’s only autocrat, stood sun-bath- 
ed in the road before the shelter: and as a Charing 
Cross omnibus emerged from under the railway, he 
stepped forward, and with a single gesture of his 
hand waved it back to let a procession of cabs and 
vans go through to the Embankment. Yarborough 
admired the ease and power of that daily marvel of 
London life : but before he had done wondering at it 
67 


Yarborough the Premier 


he saw it had been misinterpreted. A girl who had 
been standing unnoticed on the shelter at his side 
misunderstood the signal, and stepped from the 
shelter into the roadway, intending to cross and go 
up Ludgate Hill. Then finding herself within a 
couple of yards of a great empty furniture - van, 
drawn by a pair of horses and going at a pace accel- 
erated by the long slope of Farringdon Street, she 
did the most foolish thing in the world: looked 
blankly up at them and stood still. 

“Out of the way there!” shouted the driver, 
clutching at his reins. 

“Now then, miss!” cried the policeman in the 
same breath. 

“Go on!” and “Come back!” men called to h-er 
from the pavement, but it was all done in a flash: 
the powerful horses were upon her when Yarborough 
stepped forward to save her. He put his arm about 
her waist and with his free hand caught the reins 
and arrested the stumbling brutes: then lifted her 
from under their very hoofs, and swung her across into 
safety. As he sprang after her, the horses plunged 
forward : the off wheel grazed his shoulder and soiled 
his coat. Staggering from the blow he got her up 
on the pavement, and the multitude of fixed faces 
and avid eyes turned away cheated of a sensation. 
Most thanked God that they had been spared the 
sight of one of London’s common tragedies, while 
the policeman, recognising Yarborough, touched his 
helmet and remarked that it was a smart little bit 
of work. Yarborough made no answer; he had eyes 
only for the girl he had rescued. 

68 


Yarborough the Premier 


Her frock was a fashionable but shabby walking- 
dress of a soft brown material, fastened at the waist 
with a ribbon of gold ; her hat was a Tuscan straw, 
odd and simple and pretty, and worn at an angle 
truly French. She was rather above middle height, 
with a quantity of nut-brown hair, and a pale, irreg- 
ular face marked by a virginal freshness of outlook 
which recalled to him one of Andrea’s early, gold- 
cirqued Madonnas. But her hazel eyes were freaked 
with elusive green and gray, and her thin lips had a 
queer humourous twist, as if she carqe of a good fight- 
ing stock, and had inherited from her ancestors a 
mocking wit as well as a Puritan temper. Yar- 
borough liked also the straight thin line of her shoul- 
ders, and the youthful curve of her figure, the bend 
of her waist, and that particular and indefinable 
charm, rare and pure and yet ambiguous, which, 
like a sunny atmosphere, seemed essential to her 
being. 

“I ought to thank you very much: but, how does 
one say ‘Thank you’ for having one’s life saved?” 

‘‘Best, I think, by saying nothing about it,” Yar- 
borough answered, almost brusquely. 

‘‘But I am very grateful, really. It was stupid of 
me: I was thinking of something else.” 

‘‘Even when those brutes were upon you?” 

‘‘Please don’t put it down to courage,” she said, 
shaking her head, ‘‘it was purely absence of mind.” 

‘‘It argues a good deal of coolness, however,” Yar- 
borough answered; and added, yielding to an uncon- 
ventional impulse, ‘‘I should think you were not 
much afraid of death.” 


69 


Yarborough the Premier 


She let her eyes, clear and reticent as a diamond, 
rest on his face for a moment, and he was conscious 
of spiritual contact with an actual living force which 
he had hitherto eliminated from his scheme of a 
rational universe. “No, I am not,” she said. “Why 
should I be?” 

“Most people are,” said Yarborough. 

“You are not, or you wouldn’t have risked your 
life for a stranger. But I am not quite a stranger 
really, though we have never met. Are you not Mr. 
Christian Y arborough ? ’ ’ 

Yarborough bent his head. 

“My name is Margaret Carew. I’m staying with 
the Carews in Grandison Square, and I’ve often 
heard my cousin Althea speak of you.” 

“ I have the honour of knowing Mrs. Carew, so we 
may consider ourselves introduced, mayn’t we?” 

“I think so. Now do you mind pointing out to 
me which ’bus I ought to take? I like the City, but 
I don’t understand it very well.” 

“They are all rather crowded. Wouldn’t you 
rather — ?” 

“I’d rather walk, but I’m too late, and I can’t 
afford a hansom. I’m only a poor relation, you 
know, only Althea never lets me find it out. I wish 
I could thank you the way you deserve.” 

“I shall come and ask how you are after your 
adventure. Miss Carew.” 

“I wanted to ask you, but I dared not, you must 
be so very busy.” This she said as she sprang upon 
the foot-board of the omnibus. “Good-bye: don’t 
forget.” She looked back once, smiling and bend- 
70 


Yarborough the Premier 


ing her head, and then he could only watch her as 
she ran up the winding stair. 

When he had watched her out of sight, he returned 
to his old house in Bexton Street, and sat down by 
the broad window of the upper room, which over- 
looked the alley blackened by twilight. Indeed, he 
had plenty to think about, for his very universe stood 
in need of readjustment, while his house of life, whose 
architecture had been planned and carried out from 
childhood in unbroken unity, threatened to come 
tumbling about his ears like a pack of cards. His 
old view of faith had been that it was a product of 
priestly juggling, mercenary credulity, and the trick- 
ery of the senses: as to women, he had regarded 
them as so many wooden dolls, except here and there 
one sufficiently distinguished, by wit or by looks, to 
be classed, together with snapping dogs, martyred 
missionaries, and despotic monarchs, as an active 
nuisance. This was an odd point of view for a man 
of Yarborough’s years, but surely not unique: for if 
such was not the theory of the distinguished author 
of Vivian Grey, it is difficult to see what notion he 
can have held. Margaret Carew, however, refused 
to fit into the frames of any of Yarborough’s imag- 
inary portraits: he could classify her neither as 
plain and dull, nor as pretty and pestilent, nor as 
illogical and hysterical, nor could he ever set her 
down, with that facile sneer which is the last word 
of the malicious, as a young lady who wanted to be 
attractive. She stood beyond the pale of his defi- 
nitions, a fresh, calm creature leavened with whole- 
some satire, and tenfold more attractive because she 

71 


Yarborough the Premier 


remained persistently in a world of her own, looking 
down at Yarborough with a friendly but analytical 
interest. Yarborough got up, finding the picture 
too vivid, but he was overpowered by an extraordi- 
nary rush of sensations: he stretched out his arms 
and took her into an embrace which should have 
been an epitome of heaven; — but as he stooped to 
kiss her she melted into sea-foam under his hands, 
and he came back to reality, and stood trembling, 
shaken by the ebb of a passion for which late hours 
and overwork perhaps were partly responsible. So, 
at least, he told himself, and resolved to take more 
care of his health in the future: also he had some 
idea of never going near Althea Carew’s house again, 
but the very contemplation of the resolution seemed 
to absolve him from the necessity of making it ; be- 
sides, he had passed his word and could not break 
it. His final determination, therefore, was to go to 
Grandison Square the very next day: but the last 
thing he saw before falling asleep was his brother 
Edmund’s face, pale and with a look of reproach. 


V 


In Grandison Square 

“ALTHEA,” said Margaret Carew, coming into 
the softly lighted, rose-tinted drawing-room 
where her cousin sat waiting for an exceedingly late 
dinner, “Althea, listen: I’ve had an adventure.” 

“Darling, have you? but it doesn’t matter at 
all about your not coming in in time, for Frederic 
isn’t back yet, and I’m so hungry, only I don’t think 
it’s nice for you to be walking about by yourself at 
this time of night — do you?” 

Althea was a slender little matron with blue ap- 
pealing eyes, who did her golden hair in soft puffs 
and got her gowns from Paris and her grammar from 
nowhere in particular; but no one had the heart to 
be provoked by those soft rambling incoherencies, 
uttered in the plaintive cooing tones of a distressed 
dove. Margaret came and sat down in a rocking- 
chair; she had exchanged her walking-dress for an 
Empire gown of black chiffon, through which glanced 
the moonlight of silver threads, while Althea was 
radiant in laces and jewels and a fiow^ of creamy 
silk. 

“I had an adventure,” she repeated solemnly, 
“with a young man.” 

“My dearest girl! — I always said you had wonder- 
73 


Yarborough the Premier 


ful eyes, though. I hope it wasn’t too frightfully 
shocking?” 

“A young man of great personal attractions,” 
said Margaret pensively sticking out the toe of her 
slipper and studying it: “Dear me, I think I’ve got 
a hole in my stocking; I must remember to darn it 
to-night. A young man of first-rate abilities: I 
should think it would be quite educating to talk to 
him.” 

“Oh bother, nobody wants to be educated now,” 
said Althea impatiently. “Do go on!” 

“Young, handsome, clever, aristocratic and rich,” 
proceeded Margaret equably. “And he saved my 
life.” 

Althea uttered a slight scream, and leaned for- 
ward eager-eyed, fluttering her fan quite fast while 
Margaret gravely sketched the evening’s episode. 
“My dear Peggy,” said the little lady, when it was 
done, “how intensely romantic! Of course he’ll 
come and call. The Yarboroughs are of excellent 
family — not that it matters nowadays in a public 
man — and, besides, Frederic says his position is 
something simply astonishing, considering how old 
he is. I’m glad he isn’t a labour member, though,” 
she added thoughtfully, “because the in-laws might 
turn out so dreadfully horrible.” 

“What should you think,” Margaret asked, push- 
ing up into the waves of her hair one of those hair- 
pins, miscalled invisible, by whose aid untidy people 
try to tuck up straying locks, “would be best for me 
to be married in? Gray is always satisfactory to 
go away in and besides it does for anything after- 
74 


Yarborough the Premier 


wards; but white — and particularly white satin — is 
simply too trying for words.” 

‘‘Oh my dear, pray don’t take up any of your 
queer notions upon that subject,” said Althea, has- 
tily. “I think I should die of mortification if you 
were to do like that dreadful step-daughter of poor 
Lucy Avery’s did, who married old Mr. Isaacs the 
pawnbroker, and insisted on being married in twelve 
different colors to represent the twelve tribes of 
Judah. So foolish and unkind of her, too, because 
the poor old gentleman always spelled it Ysaque 
himself and pretended he was a Canadian Hugue- 
not, only nobody would believe him on account of 
his nose — although they say she only took him be- 
cause Lucy made her, which I can quite believe, for 
Lucy had the most fr-rightful temper, so perhaps 
she was more to be pitied than blamed, poor dear!” 

“Well,” said Margaret, in a considering tone, 
“perhaps we might make it white satin, veiled in net 
or lace or something. As for bridesmaids, I suppose 
perhaps he would want to have some of his own re- 
lations; what do you think?” 

“I don’t know whether he’s got any,” said Althea 
doubtfully, “and anyhow we should have to make 
sure they weren’t too plain — or too pretty,” she 
added soberly; “that would be worse still.” 

“I’ll ask him when I see him whether he has any 
pretty sisters not quite as pretty as I am,” said Mar- 
garet: “will that do?” 

Althea looked at her sharply. “You’re laughing, 
Margaret,” she said. “I don’t think it’s quite nice 
of you to make a jest of serious subjects.” 

75 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I beg your pardon, but you are in rather a hurry 
to get rid of me, you know. I could see by the frown 
on your forehead that you were wondering how much 
you would be able to save out of the housekeeping 
for a wedding-present. Were you deciding on silver 
sugar-tongs or a standard lamp?” 

“I should give you something nicer than that, 
I hope, my dear,” answered Althea with a smile. 
‘‘And I’m not at all anxious to get rid of you, as you 
know perfectly well: only I should like to see you 
happily married. Girls always think they’ll be just 
as happy if they never marry, but it’s a great mis- 
take. Home is a woman’s sphere, and besides hus- 
bands are no trouble if they’re properly managed.” 

‘‘It sounds like a patent stove,” murmured Mar- 
garet. 

‘‘Besides, they’re so convenient to take you 
about,” Althea pursued unheeding. ‘‘And then 
they’re so sweet — oh, men are ever so much nicer 
than women, I think. Nicer in the house, you 
know — easier to get on with, and all that.” 

“Unless they drink.” 

''Margaret ! They don’t: not in our position in 
life.” 

“ Occasionally they do, you know,” said Margaret. 
“And occasionally they get into the divorce court. 
Or they flirt, or gamble, or grumble, or live in the 
country and devote themselves to sport.” 

“I thought you were so fond of riding?” said Al- 
thea helplessly. 

“So I am,” returned Margaret composedly: “but 
not in pursuit of a fox, or a hare, or a red herring, 
76 


Yarborough the Premier 


or a tame stag that tries to fraternise with the 
hounds.” 

“I don’t believe hunting’s cruel,” said Althea. 
“Frederic knows lots of hunting-men, and they all 
say the fox enjoys it, and they ought to know: be- 
sides, all the clergy used to hunt once.” 

“And afterwards they performed the services in 
top-boots and riding-breeches,” said Margaret, “so 
of course it can’t be cruel. Besides, very often they 
don’t kill the hares and things at all : they save them 
up and make them last for years. That’s because 
we’re such a humane nation.” 

“ No, I think it’s in case of running short,” said the 
literal Althea. “But anyhow. I’m sure Mainwar- 
ing Savile wouldn’t do anything cruel.” 

Margaret looked for a moment as if she were not 
quite so sure of that, but she only answered rather 
dryly, “Mr. Savile only hunts big game.” 

“You sha’n’t say horrid things about Mainwaring 
Savile, Peggy : I won’t have it. He’s one of my most 
particular favourites, and you’re not to do it.” 

Margaret gave the required promise, rocking 
rhythmically with her eyes shut. As an amateur 
student of character, she was quite sure that Savile 
was not, and would not for the world have become, 
the guileless English gentleman of Althea’s chari- 
table fancy: she saw capacities of nobility and 
brutality springing side by side in that strong and 
complex organism, but she preferred to keep her 
knowledge to herself. In her own mind these dual 
qualities were so entwined and bound together as 
to leave room for a clear judgment, but in Althea’s 
77 


Yarborough the Premier 


one or the other must inevitably have predominated, 
and borne fruit in injustice. Margaret, therefore, 
held her tongue, and contented herself with the sat- 
isfaction of always feeling, and occasionally allowing 
herself to look, provokingly diplomatic. This, of 
course, the Madonna of Yarborough’s dreams had 
no business to do: but indeed Margaret was very 
human, and had not the slightest idea of fitting her- 
self for a shrine. 

Their talk was closed by the entrance of Frederic, 
Althea’s cousin and husband, who came in grum- 
bling at the lateness of the hour: he was some- 
thing indefinite in the Home Office, and had been 
detained by a press of work. He was a small, neat 
man with dark eyes and a dark mustache, said to 
have nothing clever about him but his manner, 
which was finished but disagreeable: so much so, 
indeed, that conversations were apt, as now, to 
wither at his approach. It was through him that 
Althea and Margaret had made Savile’s acquaint- 
ance, for which fact Margaret owed him a debt of 
gratitude, for Savile was reckoned almost first among 
her few friends. Carew liked Margaret, over whom 
he had a sense of power, because she was poor and 
accepted presents from his wife: he also admired 
his wife immensely, although he did not scruple to 
tell her she was an idiot. He had no great virtues 
or vices, but practised in their stead a code of re- 
spectable morality and a quantity of shabby faults. 
He kept, for example, a tight hand on his purse, 
and worked out his accounts in farthings : he found 
fault with the fit and fashion of Althea’s clothes, and 
78 


Yarborough the Premier 


vowed he would not go out with her unless she 
dressed better, yet sulked for a week after paying 
her bills: on the other hand he had a horror of 
debt, and paid ready money for everything, perhaps 
because his father had gone bankrupt before he was 
old enough to understand that a man who has paid 
his creditors a shilling in the pound may make a 
second fortune with a clear conscience, and yet not 
be a thief. His chief drawback, from Althea’s point 
of view, consisted in a conviction, of which she had 
never been able to break him, that he was a more 
competent cook than the French chef who governed 
his kitchen : it followed that he was in the habit of 
sending down recipes for curries, and gratuitous 
advice on the subject of hanging game, which were 
taken as a deadly insult and met by a threat of 
notice on the spot. 

To-night, however, the dinner was satisfactory, 
and the various courses passed without remark, and 
he was in a very good temper when, after a single 
glass of wine (for he was very abstemious), he fol- 
lowed the ladies into the drawing-room and took 
up his position on the hearth-rug. He praised Mar- 
garet’s black dress, telling her that it suited her col- 
ouring, which was pale, and her figure, which indeed 
no dress could spoil. “Besides,” he added, “it’s a 
nice, quiet little frock: very suitable indeed for a 
girl in your position, my dear.” 

Margaret lifted her eyes, mischievously calm and 
placid as a cat’s which is only too lazy to scratch, 
but she was spared the trouble of finding a reply by 
Althea, who interposed hastily : 

79 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Now that just shows how much men know about 
dress! Why, I gave Margaret that frock myself: 
it came straight from Paris, and cost thirty guineas 
at the very least!” 

Carew puckered his smooth forehead into a little 
frown. “That seems a lot of money to spend on a 
frock which you’ll get torn to pieces at the first 
dance you go to.” 

- “It will be my best gown all the summer,” said 
Margaret, apologetically, disarmed by the change 
of venue. “Althea was very kind: she bought it as 
a birthday surprise ^ and never said a word about it 
till it came.” 

“Well, I know it would be long enough before I 
gave thirty guineas for a coat : but you women are 
all alike — never happy unless you’re spending 
money. I mean to take Althea out of town when 
the sales are on, it’s the only way of keeping her 
within bounds.” 

“Nonsense, Frederic, you know nothing about it. 
You ought to be ashamed to talk like that!” And 
Althea frowned and nodded at her husband, to in- 
timate to him that such sentiments, expressed in 
such a context, were likely to make Margaret un- 
comfortable. These signals, of course, were all made 
with the greatest secrecy: equally of course, Mar- 
garet did not miss one of them, and affected total 
blindness. She got up and crossed to the window, 
whence she could see the trees of the square lifting 
their great leafy branches, like clouds of immovable 
darkness, against the softer dark of the sky burning 
with summer stars. Grandison Square was a very 
So 


Yarborough the Premier 


quiet place; a hush of aristocratic seclusion brooded 
over its narrow limits, rarely broken except by the 
jingle of bells or clatter of trampling horses. But 
it was closely girdled by the splendour of working 
London, by the murmur of the eternal labourers’ 
hymn, with all its voices, all its warrior-harmonies, 
all cries of human irony and melancholy with the roll 
of funeral drums and the sombre figure of toil not 
without hope. The figures of Frederic and Althea, 
and the meagre outline of Grandison Square, dwin- 
dled behind her into their proper insignificance, into 
the half-light of the commonplace. She saw the great 
slandered city, illuminating leagues of cloud-land 
with the reflection of its labourious lamps, miscalled 
ugly, very patient: a type of the great mother- 
country, railed at by her sons, yet patiently nourish- 
ing them at her bosom : a type of patient dumb hu- 
manity all the world over, slandered by preachers of 
half-truths, who cry, “All men are liars,” and forget 
to say, “Ye are gods.” Her nature responded to the 
touch of unknown forces, which took concrete form 
and came before her in the likeness of men who lived 
and fought in the world: Yarborough, cynically at 
odds with destiny: Savile, equitable and cold and 
strong. Either could give, to whatever woman he 
chose, the vital gift of freedom in service. A strange 
sensation came to Margaret as she listened to the 
night - song of London : she seemed to stand be- 
tween them, offered her choice of their lives, and to 
stand uncertain which was the hireling and which 
was the true unselfish servant of men. This ex- 
perience faded as it had come : she looked over her 

6 8i 


Yarborough the Premier 


shoulder into the warm lighted room, gave herself a 
little shake, and was back in a moment in the safety 
of the commonplace, and somewhat amused at her- 
self. School -girls only, she thought, may be for- 
given for looking at every man they meet in the light 
of possible hymeneal tapers ; she was out of her teens, 
and told herself prosaically that she was a fool. 
Such moods were rare with her : she wondered what 
influence it was that had turned her to-night into 
an unfamiliar Margaret. She had many of those 
rough, vivid, earthly qualities which are more often 
found in men than in women, but her will was to be 
spiritual and calm and clear. Narrow as her life was 
under Frederic Carew’s petty tyranny, she rarely re- 
belled against it. It seemed as if her encounter with 
Yarborough had acted as the completion of an elec- 
tric circuit, kindling wild sparks in saint and world- 
ling; and each, in their infinitely different ways, 
shrank from the fiery contact. 


VI 


The Charlatan 

Y arborough got up the next morning in a 
temper of serene exhilaration, the light of war 
sparkling in his eyes. Two pieces of business lay 
before him, both risky and both fascinating: the 
second, whose course he had not yet precisely de- 
termined, was to lie between him and Margaret : the 
first, for which he only lacked a pretext, was to be a 
duel with Carteret. Life itself, that most discreet 
and most astute of journals, lay upon his breakfast- 
table, and he picked it up and studied its columns 
over a frugal meal of coffee and eggs, in search of 
some chance sneer or bitter phrase which might be 
supposed to have wounded his feelings. He found 
all and more than he wanted in a leading article, 
where his own character and pretensions were dis- 
cussed and dismissed in a flow of smooth neat prose, 
dainty as an essay of Addison but not so amiable, 
such as Carteret alone could have written. It was 
so clever and disagreeable that Yarborough read it 
all through with the greatest enjoyment, and burst 
out laughing at the shrewdest hits. He did not in 
the least mind being made fun of : a laudatory notice 
would have bored him, but here he was in his ele- 
ment, and felt as the old campaigner feels when the 

83 


Yarborough the Premier 

first bullets come humming and piping across the 
sand. 

An hour later he was standing before the door 
of Carteret’s private office, situated, like most edi- 
torial sancta, at the top of two flights of stairs 
which looked as if they had not been scrubbed 
for a month. Disregarding a printed intimation 
of strict privacy, Yarborough tapped once and 
walked in without waiting for an answer. The 
room was small and dingy and whitened by a snow- 
drift of papers, and the editor himself sat perched 
on a high stool before a large bureau, turning his 
face towards the opening door with a preoccupied 
but indignant look, like a cross baby owl. Recog- 
nising Yarborough, however, he relaxed into a 
benevolent smile. 

“What does thee want, lad? Tell me about it, 
quick: I’m busy.” 

Yarborough tilted a heap of manuscripts uncere- 
moniously upon the floor, and dropped into a chair 
facing the window, so that what light could pene- 
trate the discoloured panes fell across his features, 
revealing their pallor and look of sombre composure. 
His reply was to hand Carteret his own copy of Life, 
laying his finger on the selected paragraph. Car- 
teret lifted his eyebrows. 

“Don’t play the Sphinx in private life, it’s in bad 
taste. What does thee mean by that?” 

“You did know it was in, then? There is no mis- 
take?” 

“I generally read my own leaders,” said Carteret, 
puzzled. “What mistake should there be?” 

84 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I fancied there might have been some error,” 
Yarborough answered after a short pause: voice and 
face alike significantly expressionless. 

“Surely thee’s not offended?” 

“What right have I to be offended?” 

“None at all,” Carteret assented placidly. “But 
that would not prevent thee, if thee wanted to be. 
Only I don’t see why thee should.” 

Yarborough shrugged his shoulders. “It is a 
damaging article,” he said coldly. 

“It’s not the first.” 

“It is the worst.” 

“ But — hang it all, lad ! I never professed to defend 
thee, did I? Life is a Liberal paper, but I suppose 
it isn’t bound to swear by every little whipper- 
snapper that likes to hang up his hat in the Oppo- 
sition lobby?” 

Yarborough started to his feet. “If that is the 
way you look at it, I can have no more to say,” he 
exclaimed, strong resentment breaking through the 
enforced quiet of his tone: and he turned to leave 
the room. 

“Stop,” said Carteret. 

Yarborough hesitated, his hand on the door. 

“Come back, lad, and sit down and talk it over 
quietly. I never meant to hurt thee: I thought 
that thick hide of thine was too tough to feel the 
scratch of a pen. Indeed, I don’t even now see 
what’s wrong. Is it that I’ve made too much fun 
of thee? Boys generally like to be taken seriously, 
but I thought thee had sense enough to see a joke 
against thyself.” 


85 


Yarborough the Premier 


Yarborough turned his head away to conceal a 
momentary spasm which contracted his features. ‘ ‘ I 
am not a fool,” he said with asperity. “I trust that 
I know how to endure mockery in a good cause.” 
Here seeing Carteret’s blue eyes open rather widely, 
he perceived that he had overshot his mark, and hur- 
ried on. ‘ ‘ I looked at it from a business point of view. 
These are critical times ; and my worst enemy could 
hardly have put forward a more dangerous attack.” 

Carteret passed his hand wearily across his fore- 
head. “Oh, go on, go on,” he said. “I never was 
an enemy of thine before, but I will be after this: 
the boy’s stark mad, I think.” 

“That reference to the election is likely to prove 
singularly damaging. You imply, in effect, that I 
gave up my own seat simply in order to curry favour 
with Hammersley, and you hint that even so I should 
never have done it, if I had not had some promising 
schemes of personal aggrandisement up my sleeve.” 

“Lord love thee, my dear boy,” said Carteret 
spitefully, “everybody knew that before.” 

Yarborough flushed, and his lip quivered. “That 
is absolutely an insult, Carteret, do you know?” he 
said quietly. 

“Insult, fiddlesticks!” 

“As you please. I never complained when you 
called me a fool, because that is one of the incidental 
joys of public life; but I really cannot permit you to 
tell me that I am a rogue.” 

“What does thee mean by that? Perhaps thee 
would like me to retract and apologise?” 

'"Life is too great a paper to apologise merely be- 
86 


Yarborough the Premier 

cause it is in the wrong,” Yarborough answered, 
with a bitter little smile and bow. “I had no such 
dreams.” 

“Then what the dickens does thee want?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Then what did thee come for?” 

“To find out whether I had lost a friend.” 

“And thee thinks thee has?” 

Yarborough assented by a gesture. 

“Well, I’m sure!” fumed Carteret, regarding the 
dark, bent head with an ireful, injured look: “I 
thought thee had more sense. I believe,” he 
added, struck by a sudden idea, “thee’s trying 
to humbug me.” 

“To humbug you?” repeated Yarborough, taken 
aback in his turn: he had not expected to en- 
counter such perspicuity. 

“Yes: come now, isn’t this nothing but a piece of 
thy infernal cunning — a put-up job, to get some- 
thing out of me?” 

Yarborough got up and came and stood before 
the editor: he spoke with a hurried and low ar- 
ticulation which betrayed the nervous strength of 
his passion. “That is all you have to say to me?” 
he said. “That is enough of an apology from you 
to me, who could have ruined you any time these 
two years past, but held my tongue because I 
thought I was your friend.” 

“I — don’t — understand — ” began Carteret, but 
broke off, conscious that by his blanched features 
and stumbling utterance he was giving himself the 
lie. Yarborough laughed in his face. 

87 


Yarborough the Premier 


“You look as if you did; but spare your fears, I 
sha’n’t tell any one. I’m not the editor of a news- 
paper.” 

“Tell— what?” 

“Tell why you spent ten years on the Continent, 
and came back with a false name.” 

Carteret slid off the stool and faced him, not with- 
out dignity. “Good God, Yarborough, what can 
you know? I thought that old scandal was dead 
and buried.” 

“Why, old scandals never die,” said Yarborough. 
“A few questions in the proper quarter told me all I 
wanted to hear about Cecil Carey.” 

“But what — how much do you know?” Carteret 
asked. 

‘ ‘ Do you expect a categorical answer ? Y ou won’t 
like it.” 

“ Let me hear it.” 

“You were the worst kind of drunkard — heavy, 
secret, habitual. You adored your wife, but that 
did not prevent you from knocking her about in 
your crazy fits, and forcing her into the society 
which you yourself frequented, till she got sick of 
it, and applied for a divorce. You fled, and went to 
live in Russia ; she went incontinently into a rapid 
decline, and died within six months. On her death- 
bed she forgave you and sent for you, but you 
hadn’t the pluck to come, and she was crying 
out for you day and night for a week before she 
died.” 

Carteret fell into the chair from which Yarborough 
had just risen, and lay there inert, the foggy morn- 
88 


Yarborough the Premier 


ing sunshine streaming across his ghastly face. “Oh, 
you must be the devil !” he said, when he could speak. 
“Good God! . . . and I know it’s all true, only I never 
put it to myself like that before.” 

“Yours was a chronicle of emotions,” said Yar- 
borough dryly ; ‘ ‘ mine was a narrative of facts. You 
thought of all you would have preferred to do; I 
confined myself to what you did.” 

‘ ‘ How did you know my name ? I thought no one 
would ever know me, what with the change of 
clothes and the Quaker talk, and sure enough no one 
has, though I was well enough known before. But 
I was changed. It made an old man of me. You 
can’t have recognised me.” 

“ I saw your name scribbled on the back page of a 
book you lent me — do you remember? An Elzevir 
Horace that you said you had had since you were a 
child.” 

“I remember lending it to you to look at, because 
it was a rare edition. By Jove, what a fool I was! 
I did look on the fly-leaf too : but I never thought of 
the back page.” 

“I knew your writing, and was puzzled; then, 
too, I had a faint recollection of the Carey cause 
celehre,'' said Yarborough. He threw his arm sud- 
denly round Carteret’s shoulders. “Don’t, don’t, 
Cecil!” he said. “Don’t, old man.” 

“You may call me a coward if you like, and wel- 
come,” Carteret said, leaning his head on his hand. 
“You don’t know what it’s like to loathe your- 
self.” 

“Don’t I?” said Yarborough. “To be sure not: 

89 


Yarborough the Premier 


and yet by the aid of a fertile imagination I may 
form a tolerably good guess at it. Self-loathing is 
the lawful offspring of a pure will and a degraded 
ambition: it is the longing to rend off the gar- 
ment spotted by the flesh and stand naked and 
trembling in the presence of the Divine: it is the 
voice which prays, Let me he purified, even so as by 
fire."' 

Carteret eyed him curiously : he had regained his 
self-control while Yarborough was speaking, as 
probably he had been meant to do. “There is some- 
thing fine about you at times, lad,” he said thought- 
fully. “And you don’t gloss over your misdeeds as 
I’m afraid I do.” 

“That is probably owing to the comparative 
blamelessness of my life. If I had your record be- 
hind me, there’s no knowing what I might have been 
tempted to do.” 

“Do you know. I’m half glad you’ve found out,” 
Carteret said abruptly. “I never told a living soul 
about it — I couldn't: but I’m half glad you know. 
It’s an awful thing to wake up in the night and lie 
and think what a brute you’ve been, and wish you 
could have it over again, when you can’t. Things 
are all so changed, and I’m changed myself since I 
put away the drink, that I feel sometimes as if it 
couldn’t have been I that killed that girl, as if 
that part of my life belonged to a different man: 
and yet I know it was I right enough, and nothing, 
nothing can take away what’s done. There it lies, 
that last awful year, like a great plague-spot among 
all the other years ; with the crazy drunken days and 
90 


Yarborough the Premier 


the horrible nights, and Agnes lying dying and crying 
out for me, that was too idiotically drunk to read my 
own letters — ! There, I didn’t mean to tell you all 
this: but you can guess how awful it is to lie and 
think about it in the darkness,” 

“At all events, I shall not give you away: you’ve 
my word of honour for that.” 

“ Have I?” Carteret glanced at him very keenly. 
“If you’d a grain of commercial spirit in you, you’d 
have offered to blackmail me.” 

“How many thousands would you have paid me 
to hold my tongue ? Or I could have bargained with 
you for your support in Life: upon my word, I seem 
to have thrown away a chance.” 

“That you have, sonny, and I’m surprised at you: 
I am, indeed! I didn’t think you had it in you to 
behave so pretty.” 

Either injured innocence, or some less creditable 
emotion, brought the colour to Yarborough’s cheek. 
“Do you mean that?” he exclaimed, looking very 
much inclined to walk out of the room in the heat of 
his indignation. Carteret’s face relaxed, and he 
leaned forward, softly patting Yarborough’s hand. 

“There, there, lad, don’t be such a pepper-box!” 
he said soothingly. “Thee must learn to keep a 
cool head on thy shoulders if thee wants to be a great 
man by and-by.” 

“Your humour has an acid flavour: I thought you 
spoke seriously.” 

“And so I do. Nay, listen!” He kept a firm 
hand on Yarborough’s coat as he went on. “I al- 
ways said if ever I found a man worth making, I’d 

91 


Yarborough the Premier 


make him : and I mean to make you, for you’re worth 
it. You’re honest in the main, and a gentleman, 
and you seem to have your wits about you. If you 
had tried to make capital out of what you knew, I’d 
not have written a line to support you, nor tossed 
you a penny to keep you from starving. We Guern- 
sey folk have a pinch of the salt of obstinacy in us, 
you know — you’d not have got much by trying it on 
with me. But, as I said before, I like thee, lad: 
and thee ’ll have no cause to regret this day’s doings. 
Come, thee must go now,” he continued, releasing 
Yarborough’s coat-tails and waving his hand tow- 
ards the door. “Thee’s wasted all my morning 
with thy silly nonsense and — all the rest of it. 
Come, march!” 

But his hand trembled as he laid it in Yarbor- 
ough’s cool fingers, and his step was unsteady: he 
was no longer a young man, and the interview had 
greatly shaken him. Not one word of gratitude 
could Yarborough bring himself to utter: the whole 
business had grown utterly distasteful to him, and 
he was thankful to get out of Carteret’s sight. 
Neither excitement nor triumph could be exacted 
from such a victory. Yarborough was cut to the 
heart by Carteret’s evident suffering, by his aged 
and broken look, by the generosity of his promise 
and the simplicity of his faith. As he walked away 
from Carteret’s room, he went through all the sen- 
sations which he had described to Carteret in his 
little essay on self-contempt ; and yet he knew all 
the while that if it had been to do over again he 
would have done it, to the last particular. His own 
92 


Yarborough the Premier 


verdict, uttered aloud to a cabinet photograph of 
Edmund Yarborough in the solitude of the deaf 
walls of B exton Street, summed up the situation 
with impartial accuracy. 

“Do you remember, old Eddy, how you told me 
once that I combined the tastes of an aristocrat with 
the morality of a Bow Street pickpocket ? And yet 
is there no excuse for me, if I hate myself for what 
I do, and get no pleasure in the doing of it, and still 
go on doing it ? Do you call a man a thief who robs 
a granary at the risk of his life for the sake of giving 
corn to a starving people? Only, a man needs to be 
very sure of himself before he can dare play Provi- 
dence ...” 

By the afternoon, however, Yarborough’s spirits 
had revived, and he set out for Grandison Square in 
one of his imperious moods, excited and arrogant. 
He perceived no incongruity in coming, fresh from 
such a triumph, to visit Margaret, whom he had 
likened to the Madonna of tradition. 

He was ushered into the drawing-room, where he 
found Althea, sitting alone in one of her most ele- 
gant frocks, with a book in her hand which she had 
probably not been reading. She received him very 
politely; not too politely, lest he should turn recal- 
citrant, but with an air of gracious interest which 
soothed and flattered him against his will. Althea, 
as a patron of romance, was delighted to see that he 
looked repeatedly towards the door. 

“Where is Miss Carew?’’ he asked, as soon as a 
pause occurred. “I had hoped to have the pleasure 
of seeing her, and reassuring myself on her account.’’ 

93 


Yarborough the Premier 


“It’s very ungrateful of her not to come down,” 
said Althea laughing. She disapproved of Yar- 
borough’s manner, which was undeniably forward. 
“She is so fond of reading, she is always shut up 
with a book. It’s just possible she doesn’t know 
you are here.” 

Not having previously envisaged the possibility 
that she did know, Yarborough was duly discon- 
certed by this proposition. “Does she really care 
for reading?” he said. “How singular!” 

“Dear me, Mr. Yarborough, why shouldn’t she?” 

‘ ‘ I thought it was one of those things that all 
women say they like, and don’t: like music, and 
week-day services.” 

“You are very rude to us,” said Althea, more than 
a little ruffled, perhaps because, for her, his words 
were true. “I’m afraid you don’t know very much 
about women. We shall have to try and civilise you 
a little, and teach you to think prettier things.” 

Yarborough awoke to the fact that he was not be- 
having like a philosopher or a statesman. He stud- 
ied Althea through dropped lashes for a moment be- 
fore replying. 

“I know very little about ladies, Mrs. Carew: 
my mother died when I was still a child, and my life 
has been lived almost exclusively among men. For- 
give me if I show myself rough and boorish, and 
acknowledge that it is the finest tribute I could pay 
to the refining effect of their influence.” 

“I always think a political life must be so dread- 
fully lonely,” Althea murmured, her maternal heart 
melting immediately. “You clever people who do 
94 


Yarborough the Premier 


all the work have no time to cultivate any of the 
little luxuries and amenities of life. My husband al- 
ways says he has no time to make friends. Now, I 
could not live without friendship'. I think it is such 
a sweet, such a comforting thing, don’t you? And 
so invigorating.” 

Yarborough was tempted to suggest that it must 
be rather like Baker’s Cocoa, but refrained. ‘ ‘ Friend- 
ship?” he repeated, with a partially stifled sigh. 
“That ‘shade that follows wealth and fame’ is 
rarely vouchsafed to an unknown and struggling 
politician.” 

Dewy pity, mingled with an agreeable feeling of 
patronage, inspired Althea’s tone with increasing 
warmth. “I’m sure you work too hard,” she said 
earnestly. “ It is such a mistake to overwork when 
one is young. I knew a girl once, such a clever girl 
she was, and her people wanted her to go in for the 
Cambridge Locum, or something appalling. And, 
do you know, she overworked herself, and broke 
down in the most terrible way, and actually had to 
be — er — removed, you know. I always think it 
was such a shocking case. And she’s there still.” 

Yarborough, who had a bad habit of classifying 
his acquaintance generally as fools (a practice to 
which in after life he owed not a few mortifying re- 
verses), now found his genus widened to embrace 
a novel and unique species; and he was glad: he 
would have been disappointed had Althea proved 
to be anything less than extremely silly. “Quite 
so,” he said blandly, but with a somewhat grim 
smile. “A most shocking affair. But I don’t 
95 


Yarborough the Premier 


fancy there’s much danger of that for me, you know: 
our work is on such different lines from that you 
describe. I have never studied the question, but I 
should imagine the curriculum was something quite 
inordinate.” 

Althea, the latter end of whose commonwealth 
had certainly forgotten the beginning, looked a trifle 
confused. She had not intended to imply that Yar- 
borough might some day require to be “removed.” 
She also thought that he used very long words. 

“ By-the-bye,” she said, “talking of politics, I be- 
lieve you know Mr. Savile, don’t you?” 

“I know him politically. In my opinion, he is a 
magnificent man.” 

“Oh, do you? I’m so glad. He’s quite one of 
our most intimate friends. He’s very often here at 
tea-time on my not-at-home days. Such a charm- 
ing fellow, and so domestic. I quite wonder he 
isn’t here to-day; he comes in so very often.” 

“ Does he?” said Yarborough. “He is very fortu- 
nate.” 

“Oh, we’re always delighted to see all our friends.” 

“Do you include all the lonely and outcast and 
uncivilised among your friends?” 

“Certainly, when they have earned the title by 
doing true knight’s service,” answered Althea pret- 
tily. 

“You mean, when they come and hand the tea- 
cups?” 

“No, I was thinking — but I don’t think we need 
go into that. Great statesmen are not allowed to 
blush, are they?” 


96 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Surely, except when they’re caught out in a fig- 
ure of speech. I should have thought you would 
have learned all these diplomatic and ministerial 
secrets from your husband, Mrs. Carew.” 

Frederic’s position in the Home Office was known 
to be neither conspicuous nor confidential, therefore 
Althea blushed with gratification, while Yarbor- 
ough congratulated himself upon a development of 
his experience: he had now learned how to subju- 
gate the new species of fool. While he was exult- 
ing, the door opened, and Margaret came in. She 
wore an old brown frock, with a short skirt and a 
faded bodice: a lace scarf, several seasons old, was 
twisted softly round her throat, and her hair was 
pushed in untidy waves off her forehead. 

“Althea, I’m so sorry,’’ she exclaimed. “I was 
reading, and I forgot the time. How do you do, 
Mr. Yarborough? Isn’t it a foggy afternoon?’’ 

Certainly these were not original remarks, yet 
they had a potent effect on Yarborough. He felt 
ashamed of his own bad motives, of his cheap vic- 
tory over Althea Carew, of the sterner, treacherous 
fight with Carteret. He would have liked to im- 
press and dazzle her, to waken fire, even the fire of 
wrath, in those critical soft eyes; but instead he 
had hard work to keep control of his own voice and 
manner, while Margaret’s mood was one of estranged 
quiescence flecked with satire. 

“What have you been talking about?’’ she asked, 
seating herself in a chair, as Althea afterwards told 
her, “just where the light showed up that dreadful 
patch in your elbow!’’ 


7 


97 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I don’t know,” said Yarborough absently. 
Margaret raised her eyebrows with a quizzical 
glance. 

“Did you miss me verymuch?” she inquired, help- 
ing herself to a muffin. “You ought to have, be- 
cause I never forget to hand people hot cakes. I 
hand them whenever I want one myself, as a kind 
of pretext for taking it.” 

Yarborough rallied his wits, and laughed. “We 
have been talking politics,” he said; “Mrs. Carew 
condescended to the level of my ignorance. We 
also talked of the higher education of women ’ ’ 
(Althea appeared surprised to hear it), “and Main- 
waring Savile.” 

“Mainwaring Savile?” repeated Margaret. “Oh, 
I suppose you abused him?” 

Yarborough looked up quickly. “Now, why 
should you say that?” he asked. “I said I thought 
him a rare and splendid type of Englishman : and so 
I do.” 

“I’m so awfully sorry ; I thought political people 
always abused the other side. But I suppose they 
don’t in private life.” 

“Far too clever, believe me,” said Yarborough 
grimly. 

“Oh, Margaret!” broke in Althea, “how can you 
say such things? Mr. Yarborough hadn’t a word to 
say against Mainwaring, and I’m sure he wouldn’t, 
even if he had.” 

“I sit corrected,” said Margaret. “Don’t both 
snub me at once, please. I shall go away if you do. 
Even muffins wouldn’t console me for that.” 

98 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Have you got over your disagreeable experience 
yesterday?” 

Margaret wondered that Yarborough should be 
the first to refer to it, till she met his eyes and per- 
ceived by them that he saw nothing in the incident 
to merit thanks or praise. “You are odd!” she said 
involuntarily. 

“Am I? After that, you must explain yourself.” 

“Well, perhaps it’s only my conceit that makes 
me feel as if you must be odd,” Margaret explained. 
“You evidently don’t think me half such an im- 
portant person as I think myself.” 

“A very bad shot. Miss Carew. I see you can’t 
read character.” 

“That’s very kind of you. I would like to be 
thought important,” said Margaret. “All the same, 
I don’t believe you. You don’t think anything of 
saving my life. You don’t even expect to be thank- 
ed for it.” 

“/ saved your life?” Yarborough echoed. 

“Well, didn’t you know it?” 

“It hadn’t struck me in that light before. What 
was it you said yesterday? That I risked my life to 
save yours?” 

“Yes, wasn’t it heroic?” assented Margaret, fire 
sparkling in the witch-hazel of her eyes. “Don’t 
you admire yourself?” 

“I envy myself. I should like to do it again and 
know that I was doing it.” 

“Oh, I know,” Margaret exclaimed eagerly. 
“One always does the exciting things in a hurry, and 
one never has time to analyse and appreciate prop- 
L. of C. no 


Yarborough the Premier 


erly. To be nearly killed, like that, ought to be a 
kind of transfiguring, illuminating experience: but 
in real life it comes all in a flash, and doesn’t illu- 
minate any more than a flash of lightning. Yester- 
day, when those horses were on me. I’ll tell you what 
I was thinking of: I was wondering whether my 
clothes would ever be fit to put on again. Now 
wasn’t that disappointing?” 

“ I suppose one hardly ever gets the full flavour of 
an adventure at the time,” said Yarborough, “un- 
less one is thoroughly inured to them. Like, for ex- 
ample, Mainwaring Savile.” 

“Oh, Mainwaring Savile . . .” said Margaret. 
“Yes, he has had lots. Dear me, what nonsense 
we’re talking! Have you been to the Academy 
this year, Mr. Yarborough? Althea took me to the 
private view.” 

Yarborough wished Althea at a distance. He was 
longing to discuss this new and startling proposition, 
that he had saved Margaret’s life: to work it out 
in all its bearings, instead of engaging in a triangular 
conversation about pictures which he had never 
seen except through the medium of art critiques. 
However, he behaved very well, and was polite to 
his hostess with a politeness which defied the scru- 
tiny of Margaret, who knew that men very often 
laughed at Althea. When he got up to go, he re- 
ceived his reward, in the shape of an invitation to 
come in whenever he wanted a little rest. 

“Then I shall be here very often,” he said, with 
his shallow smile. 

“You can’t come too often,” said Margaret ab- 

lOO 


Yarborough the Premier 


sently, anxious to be gracious but thinking of some- 
thing else. 

“How about the white satin now?” demanded 
Althea, as the door closed upon their guest. “But 
oh, Margaret, I never knew you could be such a 
shocking little flirt!” 


VII 


The Wanderer 

A BRIGHT fire blazed upon the hearth, and the 
polished steel of the andirons flickered with 
reflected gleams of bluish flames. A wall of fog 
pressed against the windows, dark, solid, chilly: but 
the dark, shabby room, filled with antique furniture 
and lit by the play of dancing fire-light, withheld it- 
self from gloom and cold as an island rises out of the 
tide. Savile sat at the piano, his face turned tow- 
ards the glowing coals, his strong hands fitfully 
wakening the sleep of the keys, near him Estcourt, 
who was tall and dark and lean and lazy, reclined in 
an American chair with an embrowned meerschaum 
between his lips, his sallow hands clasped at the 
back of his head, his cadaverous eyes and high fo- 
rensic forehead appearing and disappearing behind 
spiral wreaths of smoke. 

Their friendship had taken its rise in an incident 
of Estcourt’s early manhood, which was both un- 
common in its circumstances and characteristic in 
its development. They had been together at Eton, 
where Savile, by virtue of his great strength and love 
of silent justice, became an acknowledged leader, 
while Estcourt, precocious and lazy, hating games, 
talkative, impudent, democratic, and sneering, got 
102 


Yarborough the Premier 

himself heartily disliked. Later they parted com- 
pany, for Savile, at the age of sixteen, vanished mys- 
teriously during the summer holidays, and was re- 
ported to have taken himself off gypsy-fashion into 
foreign parts, while Estcourt went up to Oxford and 
got into a wild, gay set, and was the ringleader in 
every piece of mischief or audacity that did not in- 
volve much physical exertion. But he paid the price 
of his popularity before leaving the university, for he 
got heavily in debt, fell among Jews, and was finally 
reduced to such straits that he went the round of his 
friends asking them to back a bill for him. Very dis- 
creetly, however, they declined to commit them- 
selves; and then, in despair, hearing that Mainwar- 
ing Savile was back in town, he turned to him, as 
an old school - fellow, though never a very close 
acquaintance. He could not have gone to any man 
less likely to deny him, or to annoy him with good 
advice. Savile endorsed the bill, and asked no 
questions: and nine months later found himself 
let in to the amount of ;gi5oo. Savile at that 
time had not come into possession of his property, 
but was living on an allowance of five hundred a 
year : and he was too proud to ask help of his guar- 
dian, Lord Ferdinand. He sold his horses, pawned 
his scanty jewelry, and persuaded the makers to 
take back the splendid seventy-horse-power racing- 
car which he had just had built for himself after two 
years’ economical wandering: raised and paid the 
money, and left himself temporarily penniless. Est- 
court, completely sobered by the shock, apologised 
by letter and told Savile that he would work day and 

103 


Yarborough the Premier 

night till his debt was paid. He got his letter back 
by return of post, torn neatly across and across. He 
met Savile in the street and tried to speak to him; 
and Savile cut him dead. Then, since after all he 
was a gentleman, and had sufficient common-sense 
to own that he deserved all he had got, he went 
and made his apologies to his indignant father, 
got work as a clerk, and starved in a garret on 
£$o a year while he saved the other ;g5o which 
made up his salary. Seeing that he was really try- 
ing to reform, Mr. Estcourt, who was an eminent 
King’s Counsel, took him away from the office- 
work which he detested and sent him to the 
Bar, where thanks to luck, industry, aptitude, 
and paternal influence he succeeded better than 
one man in a thousand. Seven years after the 
affair of the bill, he sent Savile a cheque for 
;£i5oo plus seven years’ compound interest at 
three per cent., wrapped in a sheet of paper on 
which was written: ''With renewed apologies, from 
A. St. L. E.” 

The next day Savile called at his rooms, to ac- 
knowledge, as he said, the receipt of payment. Be- 
fore a dozen words had passed, he took the cheque 
from his pocket, tore it up and threw it into the Are. 
Estcourt, white with anger, told him he had no 
right to refuse restitution. 

“Yes, I have,’’ said Savile coldly. “What you 
did was dishonest, and dishonesty can’t be wiped 
out at compound interest. What’s fifteen hun- 
dred now to me? It won’t buy me back the ring 
my father left me, or the horse I used to ride. Write 
104 


Yarborough the Premier 


a fresh cheque and give it to a charity : and allow 
me to name my own repayment.” 

‘‘What is that?” said Estcourt astonished. 

“Your acceptance of an apology which I wish to 
make to you. I took you for a common swindler, 
but it seems there was good stuff in you after all. 
In any case, my garments are not so spotless that I 
can afford to play the Pharisee. What I did would 
have sent a weaker man to the devil. I’m sorry 
for it: now, am I forgiven?” 

And he held out his hand to Estcourt, who took it 
without a word. From that day forth they were 
friends. Estcourt gave the money to a charity and 
submitted to remain in Savile’s debt; but he paid 
Savile out by bullying him and tyrannising over him 
to such an extent that Savile said he couldn’t call 
his soul his own. They got on very well together, 
in a close alliance, checkered by quarrels, usually pro- 
voked by Estcourt, who never got angry himself, 
but insisted religiously that it was Savile’s part to 
make the first overtures of peace. Estcourt was a 
born lounger: into the solitary act of energy that 
won him Savile’s friendship he had been goaded only 
by the spur of Savile’s contempt. Now he professed 
to be delicate, and worked by fits and starts, as the 
mood took him, content to admire at a distance the 
virtues and vices and wrestlings of men more spirited 
than himself. He lived very comfortably on a mod- 
erate income: marriage had no attraction for him: 
he was a member of several slightly Bohemian 
clubs : he wanted nothing to make him happy ex- 
cept his meerschaum, an easy-chair, a novel of Bal- 
loS 


Yarborough the Premier 


zac, and Savile’s society. And Savile, despite his 
strict theories and his wandering blood, was curi- 
ously tolerant of Est court’s laziness, tolerant even 
of the little syringe and phial of cocaine which were 
sometimes to be found on Estcourt’s table. He had 
a certain respect for the indolent man whom he could 
neither incite nor irritate. 

A tongue of flame sprang out, whistling like a gas- 
jet, from a cranny in the ruby embers. They were 
lighting the lamps in the foggy streets, although it 
was three o’clock in the afternoon and the time 
was early June. Estcourt’s pipe diffused a bluish 
haze through the darkened room : he yawned, 
turning a leaf. Savile struck a final chord with 
nervous, sledge-hammer fingers, and wheeled round 
towards the fire with an impatient jerk of his 
shoulders. 

“Put away that book and listen to me,’’ he said 
crossly; “I’m bothered.’’ 

Estcourt laid La BHe Humaine face downward on 
his knee. “It’s very dull,’’ he said; “too many 
murders in it. So fire away, old man : I’ll smoke the 
pipe of peace and revolve your difficulties.’’ 

“It’s an odd business, and in a way delicate. 
It’s—’’ 

“ — Got a petticoat in.” 

“It has something to do with a lady.’’ 

“Well, you can’t expect me to deliver a verdict 
till I’ve heard the evidence. Is she plain or 
pretty?” 

“It has reference also to Christian Yarborough,” 
Savile said with his most repressive air, and turning 
io6 


Yarborough the Premier 


a deaf ear to the inquiry. ‘‘You remember, I told 
you about him?” 

‘‘Fellow who bunked with the treaty?” 

Savile nodded. 

‘‘Well, I don’t see why you need have put down 
so many wrong notes, anyhow. You’re no sort of 
a pianist, to let your temper get the better of you 
like that.” 

‘‘I know I don’t play well,” said Savile, restlessly 
touching single notes. ‘‘I never was taught: I’ve 
no execution, and I, never like anything except out- 
landish tunes and big chords in the minor. I’m not 
fit for drawing-rooms. I’m not the sort of man 
that women like.” 

‘‘So — ho, my friend!” said Estcourt, clasping his 
sallow hands at the back of his head, and turning 
his gray-green eyes on Savile’s face. ‘‘That way 
lies perdition, tight gloves, and a flower in your but- 
ton-hole.” 

‘‘I haven’t got as far as perdition yet, let alone 
the rest. I’ve only got to the stage of feeling like 
a fool,” said Savile, settling his forehead into a 
little frown. ‘‘I’m handicapped by my height and 
build and all the rest of it. What’s the use of being 
a good revolver - shot if you don’t know how to 
waltz?” 

‘‘It depends. Who is she?” 

“Miss Margaret Carew.” 

“Old Freddy’s cousin, or whatever it is? The 
brown-eyed girl?” 

“I believe Miss Carew ’s eyes are brown.” 

“Why so nervous? I should think she’d jump at 
107 


Yarborough the Premier 


the Evil One himself for a chance of getting away 
from old Freddy." 

“Now, look here, Tony — " 

“All right, I understand the way you feel about it : 
she’s not the sort of girl one would care to have ex- 
posed to chance words. But what is Yarborough 
doing in that galley ? I thought he never took any 
notice of women." 

“That’s what it is. He’s always at the house 
now : Mrs. Carew seems to have given him the run 
of it." 

“And you are jealous?" 

“It’s not that. If he were a gentleman, I’d fight 
fair." 

“His mother was a farm-hand, or so I’ve heard: 
but after all a man takes rank from the father’s 
side, and they are one of our oldest commoner fam- 
ilies," said Estcourt, who prided himself on his own 
patrician descent and had made a study of Debrett. 

“He’s not fit to touch the hand of a lady. I’d like 
to have him hounded out of every club in London." 

Estcourt raised his eyebrows. “So bad as all 
that?" 

“The fellow’s a moral leper. Look at the way he 
treated his brother!" 

“Mind, that’s all pure guess-work. You haven’t 
a shadow of proof." 

“I’ve all the proof I want in the memory of his 
face," Savile said with a grim laugh which made 
Estcourt look at him in fascination and dismay. 
“I can’t stand that fellow, Tony. He’s always get- 
ting in my way." 

io8 


Yarborough the Premier 


“We don’t want any penny-novelette business, 
you know,’’ Estcourt said hastily. “I beg of you 
not to get melodramatic, old boy!’’ 

“But he’s so infernally annoying,” Savile ex- 
plained. “If he lied malevolently about me I’d 
not care, but he’s too clever for that: his line is to 
laud me to the skies! Of course the Carews are 
struck by his generosity, and then when I try to 
make them understand how things really lie be- 
tween us, and that we hate each other like a couple 
of Corsicans, they simply get more convinced than 
ever that he’s a Christian hero and I’m a jealous 
brute.” 

“Which of course you are not in the least?” 

Savile did not reply for a moment : then he spoke 
doggedly. “Yes, I am,” he said. “I’m jealous of 
letting him breathe the same air with Mar — Miss 
Carew. I can see that the fellow’s handsome, and 
in his way attractive : but to me he’s an unadulter- 
ated charlatan.” 

“Well, perhaps he’ll sober down, like the great 
Dizzy,” Estcourt suggested, yawning. “At all 
events, he didn’t turn up in the House and make 
his maiden speech in a bottle-green frock-coat 
and large check-pattern pantaloons, with a shirt- 
front glittering with chains, and clusters of well- 
oiled coal-black ringlets shading his classic and 
collarless throat.” 

“Dare say I’m prejudiced: but I don’t like 
thieves.” 

“He was dishonest: so was I. I stole £1500. 

“At the time you stole that money I certainly 
109 


Yarborough the Premier 


shouldn’t have introduced you to any lady I re- 
spected.” 

Estcourt winced : he was ready to abuse himself, 
but always added a private rider to the effect that 
he was not half so bad as he made out: this kind 
of mental reservation Savile annoyed him inex- 
pressibly by trampling under foot. “What is it 
you’re afraid of?” he asked abruptly. 

“He’s handsorne, and as clever as Lucifer, and 
she doesn’t know anything about him.” 

“An elegant ellipse! Verdict for the plaintiif, 
with costs.” 

“Well, but what am I to do?” 

“I should cut him out, if I were you,” said Est- 
court, smiling. 

“But if I can’t?” 

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to grin and bear it.” 
Estcourt ’s tone was philosophical, for he was fully 
convinced that no girl in her senses would ever refuse 
Mainwaring Savile: but Savile, who could not be 
expected to share or even apprehend this view, was 
naturally incensed by his calm. 

“You expect me to stand idly by and watch her 
marry that swindling liar?” he said incredulously. 
“You, who know Margaret?” 

“Why, what else can you do? You said you’d 
hold your tongue. You can’t go back on him now, 
or he’ll say you did it out of jealousy. Besides, it 
would be such a beastly thing to do.” 

“In that case I’m a beast, then: for I’m going to 
do it.” 

“By Jove, Savile, you don’t mean it — you can’t!” 
no 


Yarborough the Premier 

“ If she gets engaged to him blindfold, I shall do 
it.” 

“Do it? Do what?” 

“I’ll tell her about the treaty.” 

“Why, she’d never believe you!” Estcourt ex- 
claimed. “Good women always believe the man 
they love.” 

“Margaret’s got a head on her shoulders,” said 
Savile. He turned to the piano, and struck out a 
fire-phrase of Chopin. “I’ve no business to call her 
by her name,” he said, setting his teeth. “I didn’t 
mean to. I can’t break myself of thinking of her so.” 

“Well, I don’t know but what I admire you for 
doing it,” said Estcourt after a moment’s silence: 
the last naif confession had struck him with a 
touch of strangeness, almost of awe. “But nine 
men out of ten would call it a shabby trick.” 

“Thanks, I’ve got my own code of honour: and 
I don’t want to borrow yours.” 

“Would you mind telling me why you asked my 
advice?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Savile grimly. “I 
won’t again.” 

“Don’t get fractious, old man. I see your point 
of view, and I respect you for doing it, although I 
shouldn’t do it myself: probably I haven’t enough 
moral courage. But, honestly, do you think it will 
ever come to that? You aren’t bad-looking, you 
know.” 

Savile moved restlessly and made no reply, except 
by a sudden dominant thunder of chords vibrating 
with bitter harmonies. He was, as he had said, no 


III 


Yarborough the Premier 


great musician, no master of the keys such as Ed- 
mund Yarborough had been : but a rough, stormy 
player, stumbling amid wrong notes and broken 
time, yet instinct with sombre passion for the wild 
music that was after his own heart, for the splendid 
deadly glory of a revengeful ballad, a folk-song of 
death wrought by phantoms, a victor’s march over 
a highway of the dead. 

It was Mrs. Carew’s at-home day, and Savile, when 
he had played himself tired, went and called upon 
her. There were a good many people present in 
spite of the fog, but Yarborough was not among 
them : indeed, a few miuutes later Savile heard 
Althea explaining that poor Mr. Yarborough’s time 
was so taken up with those horrid politics that he 
hadn’t been to see them for days. This was doubly 
annoying to Savile ; in the first place, he did not see 
why Yarborough should be expected as a daily 
guest, and secondly he could not understand why 
Yarborough should be so busy, when he himself had 
comparatively little to do. Margaret was pouring 
out tea in a recess, hidden from the rest of the room 
by an embroidered curtain : it was a further trial 
to Savile to find that her seclusion was shared by a 
boy of twenty-two, with a downy mustache and the 
profile of an anxious cherub. 

“I had an awfully good time at the races last 
week,” he was saying as Savile drew near. ‘‘I 
didn’t see you there. Miss Carew, though I looked out 
for you: honestly, I did! I’d have shown you where 
to lay your money. I backed Blue Gum for all I 
was worth, so I’m in funds now.” 


II2 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Did you have a good time because you backed 
Blue Gum or because I wasn’t there?’’ asked Mar- 
garet. “I think I shall give you a little tract about 
betting. I’ve been told that you generally end by 
murdering somebody. ’ ’ 

“Do,’’ said the boy vaguely. “I’ll read them if 
I’ve time. I’m playing in the match this week: 
won’t you come down to Lord’s and see me field?’’ 

“I’d like to, awfully,’’ said Margaret. “Is it foot- 
ball?’’ He staggered under the shock, and she 
added hastily, “I’m so sorry, but I’m trying to 
count lumps of sugar on my fingers, and milk on 
my thumbs, and it’s confusing. Please take this 
cup to Mrs. Lloyd-Stevenson.’’ 

Savile stepped adroitly into the vacant place. 
“How do you do?’’ he said. “Aren’t you tired of 
talking about cricket?’’ 

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Savile,’’ said Margaret. “He’s 
really very nice, only he expects me to know such a 
lot of things. I never had any brothers, and I 
can’t play games: no wonder he thinks me dull.’’ 

“I think he thought you were laughing at him. 
It never struck him that you could be ignorant of 
anything which interested him.’’ 

“People are all egotistical,” said Margaret. 
“Men talk sport to women, and women talk babies 
to men. Do you like babies, Mr. Savile? I’m sure 
you don’t. I don’t believe men ever do, in spite of 
what they say.” 

“Then it’s not much good my saying anything,” 
said Savile. “All the same, as a matter of fact 
I’m rather keen on babies. I like all little children.” 

8 113 


Yarborough the Premier 


Margaret glanced at him critically, struck by the 
full vibrant quality of his tone, as he stood in the 
doorway, holding aside the curtain with his lifted 
hand. The powerful and controlled quiescence of 
his magnificent frame gave him the look of an an- 
tique statue, quick through its stillness with the 
noblest kind of virility: and as a statue Margaret 
admired him absently, till she recollected that he 
was after all a man. Then suddenly the idea 
occurred to her that if he chose he could lift her 
from her feet and hold her above his head, power- 
less in his grasp : and in some indefinite way the mere 
fancy set her faintly blushing. But her words as 
usual, came straight from the springs of her thought. 

“ Mr. Savile, how much can you lift?” 

“Is it a riddle?” he asked, laughing. “Ten hun- 
dredweight, to-night: after a month’s regular train- 
ing, a ton.” 

“Isn’t that very enormous?” said Margaret, eying 
him dubiously. 

“It’s pretty big: few amateurs can do as much.” 

“Don’t you rather enjoy it?” 

“I like the power right enough — like to feel that I 
could lick any three men in the room, if I wanted 
to. But it’s a risky thing, for my temper’s none of 
the sweetest.” 

“ Do you mean that you are afraid of abusing your 
strength?” 

“Certainly: it’s on the cards. You’re talking to 
a potential murderer. Abnormal strength is the 
very deuce of a temptation : it’s worse than car- 
rying a loaded six-shooter in your hip-pocket.” 

114 


Yarborough the Premier 


“You know what that is like.” 

” I reckon so! Why, I was in Yukon through the 
first flush of the gold - fever : I know the diamond- 
mines — ” he stopped abruptly. “I’m ten times 
worse than that beastly little Townshend kid,” he 
said. “Why didn’t you point out that I was boring 
you?” 

In vain did Margaret assure him that she had not 
been bored. Savile was slow to speak of himself, 
and having once got off the track could not be in- 
duced to return to it again. 

Later in the afternoon, when all the other guests 
were gone, Althea begged to be excused, on the plea 
that she wanted to write a note, and handed over 
Savile, whom she had kept at her side through all 
the farewells, to .Margaret’s care. Savile sat down 
in an American chair, while Margaret dropped un- 
conventionally into a heap on the rug. She was apt 
to get into inelegant attitudes, chiefly through ab- 
sence of mind ; fortunately, however, that lovely 
youthful figure of hers, with its supple springing 
lines and smooth contours, retained the charm of 
spiritual harmony in spite of shabby clothes or 
queerly tilted angles. 

“Now go on,” she said. “Every one’s gone, and 
I’ll tell you directly I’m bored. Talk, please.” 

“Now you have given me carte blanche,” said 
Savile, “I’m going to tell you what I’ve been think- 
ing all the afternoon. How wonderfully that blue 
frock becomes you!” 

Margaret repressed a smile. “Does it?” she said. 
“I’m glad. It’s rather old all the same. What a 

115 


Yarborough the Premier 


lot of things you have managed to get into your life, 
Mr. Savile! I can’t think how you found time to 
combine such wonderful wanderings with the seri- 
ous business of politics.” 

“I didn’t turn in to work in London till I was 
five - and - twenty : I had a free hand for nine 
years.” 

“Nine years?” repeated Margaret, with a ques- 
tioning look which said, “Please explain.” 

“I never was at a university. I ran away from 
Eton when I was sixteen. I disliked discipline, re- 
striction, exam work, dead languages. I wanted to 
get away into the open lands, and smell the sea, and 
all that. I guess I graduated fighting among Mex- 
ican cow-boys, or breaking in wild horses with the 
domidors of Chile.” 

“But at sixteen!” said Margaret, with a mixture 
of pity and disapproval. “And had you any 
money?” 

“I got myself an outfit with a ;;gio note that 
Lord Ferdinand, my uncle, sent me on my birth- 
day, and took a first-class ticket down on the 
strength of it. Then I worked my way out as a 
deck-hand.” 

“I don’t think they ought to have taken you,” 
said Margaret. 

“They didn’t know. It has always come easy to 
me to drop the gentleman, you know,” Savile ex- 
plained, with a touch of diffidence. “And I must 
have looked every day of twenty years. Besides, I 
knew a lot about the work, for my father was a keen 
yachtsman, and I had often made one of an ama- 

ii6 


Yarborough the Premier 

teur crew.” He broke off with a short sigh, which 
made Margaret regard him queerly. 

‘‘ I did not know you could remember your father,” 
she said in that low, finely modulated tone by which 
the most commonplace words are set to music. 

“I was fourteen when he died,” said Savile. 
Then, with an abrupt change of manner and an al- 
most comical glance of entreaty, he added, “Please 
don’t make me talk about myself any more.” 

Margaret was tempted to laugh, but forebore, 
seeing him really distressed. “I wouldn’t do it, if 
it bored me,” she said. “Do believe that I am not 
so wonderfully unselfish, Mr. Savile! I wish I had 
a celestial nose, then people would not always think 
me so very much better than I am. You interest 
me because you have done just what I should like 
to do, if I had been born a man. I would so have 
liked to run away to sea and tame wild horses.” 

Savile evinced no surprise at this revolutionary 
speech, which Margaret flung out with a certain en- 
ergy, feeling that she would have liked to be over- 
heard by Frederic Carew, who on the rare occasions 
when he acted as Margaret’s escort insisted on go- 
ing in a four-wheeler because hansoms were dan- 
gerous. “Yes, that’s fascinating,” he said soberly, 
yet with a sparkling glance of communicable ex- 
citement. “ How should you like to see a horse rac- 
ing along the level at full gallop, arrested and flung 
back like a statue over the cloak of its rider tossed 
on the ground?” 

“Splendid! I’d love it.” 

Savile laughed. “I’d liked to have introduced 
117 


Yarborough the Premier 


you to my father ; his eternal cry was that English- 
women have no spirit.” 

“I suppose that means that your mother liked 
needle-work?” 

“I forget. I was only a baby when she died. I 
guess he was fond of her, though, because he never 
talked about her even to me.” 

‘‘I don’t see that at all. How queer you are!” 
Margaret could not help saying. “Surely he might 
have told his own son about her.” 

“My father was queer, if you like,” said Savile. 
He spoke of this dead father with a tranquillity 
which Althea would certainly have considered cal- 
lous, but Margaret divined that it concealed some 
profound and quiet channel of feeling which the 
years would never dry up. “He used to say that 
seafaring was his business and politics his distrac- 
tion. He took office only because he was badgered 
into it. He only conformed to the laws to save him- 
self trouble. I don’t think he cared a red cent for 
waste of human life; as for our ethical and social 
systems, I’ve heard him say that he thought the 
very gods must laugh to see us worshipping straw 
idols for seventy seconds between two oceans of the 
dark.” 

“That has been said before,” said Margaret, in- 
wardly repelling the ruthless grip of reality upon her 
heart which enforced the truth of the phrase. 

“Yes, by millions,” Savile assented. “But he 
felt it. He lived face to face with death, and be- 
lieved it to mean extinction. Now do you see why 
he never spoke about his wife?” 

ii8 


Yarborough the Premier 

“What a frightful creed!” said Margaret, shiver- 
ing. 

“It’s possible to live in that creed, though, with- 
out going mad. I have done it.” 

Savile’s tone was matter of fact to the last de- 
gree. Margaret’s eyes put the question which she 
hesitated to frame in words. 

“No, not now : I’ve fought my way out of it now. 
You’ve got to get things straight, you know, by 
looking about you with your own human eyes. And 
it’s written everywhere — Laws of symmetry, don’t 
you know? Oh, you’d realise it fast enough if you 
came to walking through a dead city. It was the 
stones of a porphyry pavement, worn into a chan- 
nel by the feet of a dead and gone civilization that 
came together to pray, that taught me to feel that 
there must be some — some end to it all, don’t you 
know? Yes — it sounds sketchy, but in point of fact 
it’s as firm as a rock. One can live in it and die in 
it — a faith like that. It gets built up in you, don’t 
you know? Or you get built up in it.” 

“But you go to church, don’t you?” 

“Yes: why not? It’s the best, I expect. The 
best faith wins all along the line. Ages and faiths 
decay, but the faith of the age is the best for that 
age. And what do your own Scriptures say? ‘ The 
Kingdom of Heaven is within you.' That’s the 
broadest faith I know: broad enough to take even 
the dead folk who walked over that porphyry pave- 
ment.” 

“Do you like violet hangings for Lent?” asked 
Margaret. 

119 


Yarborough the Premier 


Savile shrugged his shoulders, with his queer, tol- 
erant smile. “Well,' they’re not exactly essential. 
Still, why not? Let the letter go with the spirit, 
provided only the letter doesn’t go before the spirit. 
Besides, for the mass of men rites and ceremonies 
are a necessary means of interpretation. Depend 
upon it, Paul was in the right of it when he said he 
would eat no meat while the world stood, sooner 
than offend a weaker conscience by his spiritual free- 
dom. Now I’m talking like a prig! Why on earth 
didn’t you stop me?” 

“You’re not, you’re not,” Margaret assured him 
eagerly. “I’m delighted to hear what you say. 
It was only the other day that I had quite a quarrel 
on just such a point with a man who asked me 
whether I considered green offertory bags or em- 
broidered stoles or soup - tickets to be the more 
efficacious means of grace.” 

“Rather a cheap sneer, wasn’t it? I should think 
he was young, your friend.” 

“He hadn’t even that excuse,” said Margaret 
with indignation. “And I do like him, too, nearly 
always. It was some one you know quite well, I 
think, though I don’t think you like him : Mr. 
Christian Y arborough . ’ ’ 

At the mention of that name, Savile shut up visi- 
bly, like a telescope: his brow contracted, his mouth 
set and hardened. “Oh, I know him well enough,” 
he said, not troubling to disguise his sentiments: 
“too well, in fact.” 

Not unnaturally, Margaret was moved to take the 
part of the absent. “Clever men make so many 

I 20 


Yarborough the Premier 


enemies,” she said, in that soft cat's voice which 
almost all women know how to use as a most po- 
tent weapon. “I know he is not popular: we are 
almost his only friends.” 

“Miss Carew, you must not think — ” Savile was 
beginning hastily, when the door opened and Al- 
thea came in. 

“Margaret, which was the day we promised to go 
to the Anselms?” she inquired, in her pretty in- 
fantine treble. “ Because I’ve mislaid my book of 
engagements, and I can’t find it anywhere; and Mrs. 
Anselm is so frightfully particular, though she’s 
really a very sweet thing : but I suppose you can’t 
help that when your uncle is a duke. I don’t know 
what I should do without Margaret, Mr. Savile, she 
has quite a head for things like that. Sometimes 
she reminds me that people are among my most par- 
ticular friends when I’ve really quite forgotten it 
myself!” 


VIII 


What Were Fools Made For, But To Be 
Cheated ? 

W ITH the first warm and sunshiny days of 
July, Althea left London for the hills of Sur- 
rey, taking Margaret with her, but leaving her hus- 
band, who was detained by his ambiguous duties. 
Althea, however, begged those few of her friends 
who remained in town to come down and see her 
whenever they could get away, and they took her at 
her word, especially Savile, who considered his re- 
election almost as safe as in the old days of pocket- 
boroughs. Yarborough also, finding himself com- 
pelled by public opinion to observe the Sabbath, 
sorely against his will, paid flying visits to Moor End 
on Sunday mornings, and so got Margaret’s image 
forever associated with broad chalk downs hal- 
lowed by a warm haze of sunshine, where flocks of 
sheep, grazing after the tinkling bell of their leader, 
flecked the green hill-side like patches of summer 
cloud. When the shadows grew long, and the wind 
came in wandering breaths of coolness, under a sky 
purified by falling dew, where the daffodil mist of 
sunset rose into a spirit-land of clearer emerald, and 
thence through hyacinthine pallor into the amethyst 
of the mid-heaven and the shadowed blue of the east 


122 


Yarborough the Premier 


where early stars take light, then it was time for 
him to quit Margaret’s side, and hurrying back to 
the great city plunge anew into the energy of mid- 
night toil. Margaret received the alternate visits 
of these rival luminaries with her customary equable 
sweetness : she could not help seeing that they 
were in love with her, but she did not take any no- 
tice of the fact. Althea called her a flirt, but she 
was wrong: Margaret was simply undecided, and 
cool as a rock-lily. Her heart did not beat any 
faster, neither did she blush, nor lose one iota of her 
normal self-control when either of her lovers drew 
near. She was half afraid that she would have to 
send them both away, which she did not want to do, 
not so much because she disliked dependence on 
Althea as because of an inward thirst after depth 
and self-reliance of emotion. Margaret’s life was so 
shallow that she had got into a bad habit of taking 
soundings every day ; and she was disgusted by the 
triviality of her own feelings. Grateful affection 
towards Althea, contempt and irritation blended 
against Frederic Carew, a starved and apathetic 
hunger after art and beauty, and an ignoble ten- 
dency to leave things as they were, made up the 
sum of her mental life, so far as she could read her- 
self: and her insurgent heart spent itself in prayer 
for an awakening. By earning her own living she 
might have gained physical independence, but that 
was not what she wanted: she had a hundred a 
year of her own which, scanty though it was, re- 
lieved her of material obligation, for she paid £8o 
into the Carew exchequer and kept the balance 
123 


Yarborough the Premier 


to dress on. She was haunted by the ghostly in- 
significance of her daily life: it is all very well 
to talk of seeing the infinite in the every - day, 
but if one descends to particulars it is hard to find 
any symbol of eternity in the discussion of feminine 
frocks, masculine dinners, and hermaphroditic scan- 
dal. No sentimental school-girl ever longed more 
heartily than Margaret for the touchstone of a real 
passion. She was not anxious to preserve her deli- 
cately balanced foothold, but would have given all 
she had to be out of her depth in summer torrent or 
mountain-guarded lake. 

Meanwhile the elections seemed likely to go stead- 
ily against the Conservatives. Every morning add- 
ed to the chronicle of their probable defeats, and 
Conservative editors exhausted themselves as well 
as their readers in trying to discover local circum- 
stances which might be made to account for the 
^ issue. It was evident that the country meant to put 
the Liberals in power, and responsible men looked 
blank while they asked each other what was to be 
done. The last of the great Liberals had been dead 
five years, and as yet no one had arisen to take his 
place. Mallinson’s name was mentioned for the 
premiership, but Mallinson’s friends shook their 
heads: he liked a seat in the House, and had owned 
that the Exchequer held its fascination for his mag- 
nificent brain, but for anything further he had nei- 
ther ambition nor capacity. Foreign diplomacy 
was a sealed book to him, except so far as it affected 
his theories of finance : as to war, it was his abhor- 
rence, and he only knew enough of it to hate it. 

124 


Yarborough the Premier 


Hammersley, on the other hand, would have liked 
supreme power: but then Hammersley was so ex- 
tremely and radically disagreeable that no Cabinet 
could be expected to work with him. Other men 
were spoken of, who had been great, or might be ex- 
pected to become so: but Lord Hayes declared em- 
phatically that he did not know anybody except 
himself or Lord Ferdinand who was fit to hold 
office for a day, or likely to hold it at all, however 
badly, for a week. There remained Mr. Wemyss, 
who never had been nor would be anything but 
mediocre ; and it was on him that expectation finally 
centred. With an able Cabinet, and an intolerably 
able private secretary, it was supposed that he might 
manage to get along respectably. His morbid ap- 
prehensiveness, it was hoped, would merely act as a 
chronic drag upon the wheels of his party, and pre- 
vent them from doing anything in -particular : of 
course, if a crisis arrived, things were likely to go 
rather badly : however, the political horizon was 
at present remarkably clear, and it was hoped that 
the charioteer would have nothing to do except sit 
on his bench with the reins in his hands, and if he 
liked go to sleep. And anyhow, there was nothing 
else to be done: and the only man was necessarily 
the best man. 

They forgot, however, to reckon with Mr. We- 
myss ’s asthma, which was really an important factor 
in the situation. He was nearer seventy than sixty, 
and had never been strong; he liked 'the notion of 
being premier, but he was also horribly afraid of it ; 
and though his spiritual nature enjoyed the pros- 

125 • 


Yarborough the Premier 


pect of becoming a martyr to duty, his weaker self 
urged him to be content with that cheaper kind of 
halo which is got by telling your neighbors that you 
have been ordered by your doctor to say No to the 
most flattering proposals on the part of illustrious 
personages. In this state of indecision, he showed 
himself feverish, vain, exacting, suspicious, and de- 
spairing by turns : and Yarborough, although out- 
wardly he had to be all suppleness and conciliation, 
got inwardly so exasperated that he would have 
liked to shake his venerable leader till his teeth rat- 
tled in his head : which indeed they would readily 
have done. The worst of it was that he knew him- 
self to be simply building castles in the sand, which 
the tide might at any moment wash away: and in- 
deed it did very often wash away their trenches and 
outworks, and then all the arguments had to be 
gone over again, and Mr.Wemyss screwed up to his 
duty. Fortunately, however, Mr. Wemyss stood in 
great awe of his secretary, having once or twice felt 
the lash of Yarborough’s terrible tongue : he never 
dreamed of giving any orders, or making demands 
upon Yarborough’s time, but took what he was 
given without murmuring, and gave such obedi- 
ence as can be got from an invertebrate animal. 
But what would happen if he were left to him- 
self for twenty -four hours, Yarborough dared not 
think. 

So the warm days slid by, and Savile’s brow grew 
clouded, as the citadels of Conservatism fell fast into 
the enemy’s hand. Mallinson was sure to get in for 
his native division of the North Riding : Hammers- 
126 


Yarborough the Premier 


ley, unwilling to court defeat in his own borough, 
was glad to take Yarborough’s offer of the Yarbor- 
ough interest at Chanston, with the prospect of win- 
ning it unopposed. It is not to be supposed, how- 
ever, that he was grateful: on the contrary, he bore 
a special grudge against Yarborough from that day 
forward, though not the kind of grudge which would 
hinder him from accepting further favours. All this 
Savile saw without amazement, wondering what 
Y arborough meant to do : he reckoned up various 
hypotheses, but what Yarborough actually did do 
never entered his head. It was bad enough to find 
himself punished for making too sure of his own con- 
stituency by the springing up of a Liberal opponent, 
who, as he learned from his agent, was carrying 
everything before him: but when he got to the end 
of his letter and was confronted by the name of 
Christian Yarborough, he made use of expressions 
which fretted his uncle’s sensibility. 

“Pray, my dear Mainwaring, do not use such 
words,” said Lord Ferdinand languidly, looking up 
from his newspaper. “No matter what has hap- 
pened, it cannot possibly be worth your while to 
blaspheme.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Savile with an effort. “Deb- 
enham writes that I am to be opposed at Whitney 
by that — that eminent politician Christian Yar- 
borough.” 

“For myself I believe him to be an emissary of 
the Evil One, sent into the world by his master to 
catch the souls of men and the Conservative con- 
stituencies,” Lord Ferdinand answered blandly, 
127 


Yarborough the Premier 


turning his sheet. “I am sorry for you, my dear 
boy. Does he appear to have any chance?” 

“Chance? He makes chance. Debenham tells 
me he will sweep the votes. He sends me a copy of 
the fellow’s address. He is holding a regular series 
of meetings, a regular campaign, you know.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose he attacks you in the spirit of Girardin 
attacking Armand Carrel — to advertise his own 
temerity.” 

Savile laughed grimly. “Oh, you mistake, sir: 
he’s a tenfold more important man than I am. 
This confounded address of his, now — Well, he’s 
a clever blackguard. His electioneering address will 
serve as a Liberal programme, I suppose. I shall 
be turned out, from what Debenham says: it’s a 
malicious, shabby sort of trick.” 

“Do you say his address is ingenious?” 

“I tell you it is the new Liberal programme — the 
programme on which they’ll base their appeal to the 
country. There’s no charlatanism in that: it will 
run through England like wildfire. If that’s to be 
Wemyss’s line, though, I pity poor old Randolph; 
he’ll have hard work to live up to it.” 

Lord Ferdinand took the paper from Savile ’s hand 
and read it through attentively and in silence. Some 
minutes elapsed before he laid it down, with a grave, 
preoccupied air. 

“Do you suppose that he wrote that letter him- 
self, my dear boy?” 

“There’s not another man in the Liberal crew 
clever enough to write it.” 

“He must be a young man of truly exceptional abil- 
128 


Yarborough the Premier 


ities. This, Main waring” — Lord Ferdinand tapped 
the paper with his polished nail — ‘‘is a very remark- 
able manifesto. It betrays an extraordinary grasp of 
the situation. Depend upon it, this young man is at 
the back of much that has hitherto appeared inex- 
plicable. I begin to trace his hand in many mysteri- 
ous manoeuvres of the past, and to fear his influence 
upon the issues of the future. I should certainly 
advise you to resort at once to the scene of action.” 

Savile did so, and found that much mischief had 
already been done. Yarborough got on very well 
with the electors of Whitney, in which the manufact- 
uring element predominated, almost to the exclusion 
of any other interest. They were a keen-witted, 
amiable, suspicious race, not easily befooled, and 
still less easily patronised, given to asking ques- 
tions and doubting their answers, practical demo- 
crats, free from the hereditary truckling of the la- 
bourer : men who would have died sooner than have 
touched their hats to a lord by daylight, but courte- 
ous to lonely women after sunset. A board-school 
education had made their mental vision short, but 
acute and fairly logical. Aptitude, industry, hu- 
mour, courage, kindness, were virtues which they 
understood and prized; temperance was a laudable 
thing between Monday morning and Saturday after- 
noon, but became a matter of indifference in the 
interval: religion was all very well for those who 
liked it, always provided that they had not an eye 
to the clergyman’s port-wine and half-crowns: age, 
sickness, death were improbable trifles which a man 
of spirit would scorn to take into his reckoning. To 
129 


9 


Yarborough the Premier 


this blend of manly virtue and frightful irresponsi- 
bility many causes had contributed. For one thing, 
the mill-hands of Whitney were all convinced that 
the rich men of past ages had run up a long ac- 
count with the poor, which was to be paid in full to 
the generation of to-day. Again, wages were good 
and pleasure was cheap, and hard work alternating 
with facile pleasure is capable of blunting the finest 
imagination. These men laboured without knowing 
the beauty of labour, and died tasting, but not com- 
municating, the pang, of death’s bitterness and the 
world’s futility. Among these keen, kindly, mu- 
tilated lives, Yarborough was more at home than 
Savile could ever be: he understood them better 
than they understood themselves, and pitied them, 
making excuses for them something in the way God 
makes excuses for us all. Savile gave them a sor- 
rowful justice, and despised all that he was forced 
to condemn. Savile also felt himself to be of a dif- 
ferent clay, but Yarborough proudly told them that 
his father had married a labourer’s daughter, and that 
he, like themselves, was glad that he sprang from 
the primeval earth. He liked them better than he 
had ever liked his audience at Westminster, which 
vexed his arrogant soul by its pretension of equality. 
Here he spoke as a god: there he was hampered at 
every turn by depreciation and dislike. 

Besides all this, Yarborough took delight, for their 
own sake, in intrigue and excitement and power: and 
he had his fill of them in those hot summer weeks. 
Savile found that his agent’s letter had conveyed to 
his ear only an echo of the prelude to Yarborough’s 
130 


Yarborough the Premier 


plan, with whose fuller harmonies all England was 
presently ringing. For Whitney turned out to be 
really only the centre-point of Yarborough’s tour: 
he spoke at Birmingham, in Liverpool, in London 
half a dozen times a week: he ran up to Yorkshire to 
help Mallinson: he went to Lambeth to speak for 
Mr. Wemyss, who was opposed for the first time for 
eleven years, and took it very ill. The papers were 
full of his name, and Carteret in particular, mindful 
of past events, laid aside his sneering tone and de- 
voted his leaders to a serious consideration of Yar- 
borough’s action and programme. All this was 
very agreeable to Yarborough, who felt like Byron 
after the publication of “Childe Harold ”: certainly 
Yarborough was as yet hardly famous, but every 
one was beginning to say he was sure to become so. 
The tone of his own party, too, was slowly but surely 
changing; Yarborough had long since begun to 
gather into his own hands the mass of Mr. Wemyss’s 
correspondence, the countless threads of his political 
life, but of late the position seemed to be gradually 
reversing, like M. Jules Verne’s balloon when it ex- 
changed terrestrial for lunar attraction. Yarbor- 
ough was fast becoming the virtual head of affairs, 
Mr. Wemyss no more than an ornamental cipher. 

Between Savile and Yarborough there existed, of 
course, a keen personal rivalry which led occasion- 
ally to piquant incidents. Savile’s trump card was 
ancestral and family influence, for the Saviles owned 
the greater part of Whitney, and Lord Ferdinand’s 
great manor lay within a mile of the city. Yarbor- 
ough, on the other hand, appealed to public affairs, 

131 


Yarborough the Premier 


and to the splendid promises of the new Liberal pro- 
gramme, as set forth in his own manifesto. Each 
held a good hand, but Yarborough played by more 
accommodating rules, which did not forbid him to 
act the part of the true sporting Englishman, anx- 
ious to fight fair and shake hands on the issue. Sa- 
vile was inflexibly polite to his opponent. Yarbor- 
ough, when thrown against his rival, went out of his 
way to show himself generous and genial. On these 
occasions Savile not infrequently lost his temper: 
and then it was pretty to see how Yarborough would 
first deprecate and then try to gloze over such a 
fault, and cover it up from the notice of their mutual 
supporters. And yet, in spite of the Lucifer-like 
cleverness with which Yarborough contrived to put 
Savile always at a disadvantage, the issue was still 
doubtful: for the men of Whitney knew Savile of 
old, while Yarborough was a stranger, a man no- 
body had ever heard of before in those parts. True, 
he spoke them fair; but what are fair words in elec- 
tion week ? He had not lived among them, as Savile 
had done in his early childhood: there was no old 
lady in Whitney that could remember Mr. Yarbor- 
ough with curls all over his head, eating green ap- 
ples out of the blind apple-woman’s stall — a freak 
of Mr. Mainwaring’s at the age of six which natural- 
ly disposed his fellow-citizens to vote for him. 

The crisis of the struggle fell on the eve of the 
polling day, in the last week of July, through the 
agency of Bell & Sons, the local printers: though it 
is but fair to say that compositors and proof-readers 
alike disclaimed all responsibility for the error, and 
132 


Yarborough the Premier 


vowed that Yarborough’s own draught was in fault. 
However that might be, it was not found out till too 
late for any correction that notices had been issued 
of a public address to be given on Thursday the 28th, 
instead of Wednesday the 27th, at 8 p.m., in the 
large open square in the centre of the city, known as 
Savile Square out of compliment to some dead Sa- 
vile. About mid-day Yarborough received a stiff 
note from Savile to the effect that a Conservative 
gathering had been arranged a week before for the 
same place, date, and hour, and asking whether 
Yarborough desired to provoke a riot. Yarborough 
took pleasure in the composition of his answer. 

He wrote: 

“Dear Savile, — I would gladly change my place of meet- 
ing if it were possible, but I fear it is now too late. A little 
brusquerie is tolerated in an old friend, but from a stranger 
strict etiquette is demanded, and I can’t afford to alienate 
any of my scanty supporters by acting in what they would 
probably call an off-hand way. This consideration need 
not, however, weigh with you in your far different position, 
and if you feel disposed to shift your quarters, pray do not 
hesitate to do so on my account. If you are nervous on the 
score of a riot, by all means call out the military: there are 
plenty of Tommies in the barracks, although if I might vent- 
ure a word of advice I should recommend you to keep 
them in reserve, out of sight of the crowd. For myself, I 
fear neither political rivalry nor personal violence. Take 
my word for it (you know its value, and that my oath would 
be no more absolute security) , that this astounding coinci- 
dence is due to a regrettable misprint, and that no one could 
more sincerely than myself regret any inconvenience to 
which it may put you. 

“And believe me your sincere friend, 

“Christian Augustine Yarborough.” 

133 


Yarborough the Premier 

This letter, of course, effected nothing, except that 
it caused Savile to “blaspheme” with an energy 
which would have shocked Lord Ferdinand; and 
when the night of the 28th arrived, there was every 
prospect of an imeute. The meetings were fixed for 
eight o’clock, to facilitate a full attendance of mill- 
hands, who left work at six: but by half -past seven 
the square was already packed with a dense and 
cheerful crowd, fully alive to the possibilities of the 
occasion. The evening had fallen still, and gloomy 
as an evening of midwinter: the heated atmosphere 
trembled under a sallow, blighted fell of cloud, 
and flickerings of lightning played dumbly over the 
north. A platform had been erected in the open 
air, at the south end of the square, for Savile and his 
supporters: while Yarborough was to speak from the 
balcony of the Whitney Reform Club, a survival of 
the old Corn-Law days, which stood with its back to 
the north some hundred yards away. Savile drove 
up in a big barouche, accompanied by the mayor of 
Whitney, and several members of his own commit- 
tee. He was greeted with a roar of cheers as he 
stepped upon the platform: but with the cheers were 
mingled groans and hooting, which he had never 
heard before in Whitney. Anger shook him, at the 
thought of the stranger who had set the hearts of 
his own people against him: for Savile, aristocrat 
though he was, liked to live among friends, and re- 
quired loyalty in proportion as he gave faith. He 
looked across to see Yarborough, but the balcony 
of the Reform Club was empty. Apparently Yar- 
borough meant to be late, or else his courage had 

134 


Yarborough the Premier 


failed him at the last. Punctually as the clock in 
the Town Hall on his left struck eight, Savile began 
to speak. 

He was no orator, but he knew his audience, and 
was untroubled by nervousness : he was well ac- 
quainted with local interests, and knew how to in- 
troduce telling hits, and his rough, picturesque, con- 
versational style carried more attraction for Whitney 
than any more elaborate flight of rhetoric. His 
voice too, was just what they liked: it was deep, 
quiet, and perfectly clear, carried far, and took an 
edge of satire which translated his meaning like a 
foot-note. He based his appeal largely on personal 
and local grounds, reminding his hearers of all that 
had been done for Whitney by his family : and it lent 
strength to his words that he was able to point to 
the Town Hall on his left, and to a free Hospital on 
his right, both gifts of his race. His own followers 
cheered at every pause, while the Liberals, with the 
somewhat cynical tolerance of a manufacturing city, 
allowed that there was a deal to be said on both 
sides: at all events, it would be a pity not to hear 
what young Savile had got to tell them — particularly 
as their own candidate was discourteously late, and 
matters would have seemed dull indeed, but for that 
calm racy voice launching anecdote, satire, chaff, 
and personality impartially over their heterogeneous 
ranks. Savile was reassured : he had feared a fracas, 
for which he must blame his own obstinate pride as 
much as Yarborough’s trickery. No doubt Yarbor- 
ough had been playing a mere game of bluff, pro- 
voking an impossible position in the hope that Savile 

135 


Yarborough the Premier 


would be the first to give way. Savile having held 
to his post, Yarborough had been forced to retreat, 
and the honours of the day lay with Savile. He 
passed from personal to political topics, and gave a 
rapid sketch of all that the Conservatives hoped to 
do : contrasted their sober and modest aims with the 
wild chimeras of the Liberals; and appealed to his 
audience, as practical men, to say which party was 
the more likely to be able or willing to keep its 
promises. He drew a striking parallel between the 
Liberal party and a local electric-tram company, 
which, after placarding the town with advertise- 
ments, got out of gear in the first twenty-four hours 
of its existence, careered madly down the High 
Street, and upset several influential citizens through 
a plate-glass window into a confectioner’s shop. At 
this point the clock struck nine, and Savile had the 
gratification of hearing himself cheered by every 
section of his mercurial audience. Slightly raising 
his voice, he resumed as soon as silence fell again. 

“After all, gentlemen, we needn’t go out of our 
way to find an example. We’ve got one before us, 
haven’t we? That excellent company did the best 
it could for you: it meant well, though it didn’t 
act up to its intentions. But for us the question is 
not so much whether the Liberal party can do all it 
promises, as whether it will do all it can. If you 
want to get at the rule you must look at the exam- 
ple. Here we are all met together to-night, and I 
can’t flatter myself that you all came to listen to 
me. I’m no orator’’ (cries of “Yes, you are!’’) — 
“thank you, gentlemen, but I know very well that 
136 


Yarborough the Premier 


I am not. Many of you came to listen to a far better 
speaker than I am.” (Roars of delight from those 
near the platform, who began to catch his drift.) 
” But you see the wonderful speaker didn’t turn up, 
and so you had to take what you could get, and you 
took it with patience and courtesy, and made the 
best of things, like Englishmen as you are. Now 
that’s the way with the party of our honourable 
friends. They promise us something very splendid 
in the way of a programme: but what’s the good of 
it all if they don’t keep their promises? Now, gen- 
tlemen, I’m not one of those that would pull down 
every government that doesn’t do all it promises. 
You know as well as I do that all promises are con- 
ditional, in fact a kind of prophecy, and sometimes 
they can’t be kept, and it would be a bad thing for 
the country if they were. Look at Sir Robert Peel, 
now — he was a Corn-Law Conservative, but he had 
to go dead against his promises to repeal the Corn- 
Laws, and all practical men honour him for his pluck. 
But as long as a promise can be kept without doing 
evident harm to the country, which has a greater 
claim on us than any party, so long the men who 
made it are bound to carry it out. Now do the 
Liberals keep their promises like that? I ask you, 
do they ? I ask it of those gentlemen who came to- 
gether to-night to hear what my friend Mr. Yar- 
borough had got to say to them — ” 

He was interrupted by such a storm of mingled 
cheers and hooting, the latter directed exclusively 
against the defaulter, that for some minutes he 
could not go on. During this enforced pause, Sa- 

137 


Yarborough the Premier 


vile’s eyes wandered over the upturned faces of his 
supporters, and fixed upon a cluster of men who 
were fighting their way down one of the steep and 
crowded alleys which led to the opposite side of the 
square, hard by the solid rectangular block of the 
Reform Club. They left a wake of amazement, visi- 
ble to Savile in dumb-show, and of some other emo- 
tion less easy to distinguish. As the tumult of ap- 
plause died away, the sound of their voices became 
audible, and the confused murmur of the crowd as 
it parted to let them through. Shouts of “Make 
way there! Let them pass!” fell on his ear, and he 
became aware that he had lost his hold of the mob. 
All eyes were straining to see, all ears to understand, 
what was happening there at the back of the crowd. 
Some, gathering only that Yarborough had arrived 
at last, began to groan or hiss; but they were quickly 
silenced as the cry was raised: “He’s hurt! He’s 
had an accident! He couldn’t get here before.” 
Then the crowd fell back, leaving a narrow lane, 
down which Yarborough walked rapidly, white as 
death, and leaning on Cecil Carteret’s arm. 

Instead of sympathy, Savile felt the rise of un- 
governable anger. Not only decency forbade him 
to go on, but it would have been impossible to do so : 
no one was listening to him or thinking about him : 
The facile interest of Whitney was engaged on the 
side of that most picturesque of martyrs. As Yar- 
borough vanished within the doors of the Reform 
Club, the mayor came and touched Savile on the 
arm. 

“Would it not be better to suspend the meeting 
138 


Yarborough the Premier 


as a sign of sympathy with Mr. Yarborough’s mis- 
fortune?” he asked, in a prim, well-bred whisper. 
“It seems so very unfortunate after what has just 
passed. Not, of course, that you were in the least 
to blame, Mr. Savile: but still — ” 

Savile turned on him, forgetting discretion in the 
disgust evoked by that unhappy turn of phrase. 
“Accident? Misfortune?” he sneered. “Mr. Yar- 
borough is very lucky in his accidents.” 

Mr. Fearon was a delicate fair-haired man, vague 
in his opinions, tepid in emotion, a devotee of pru- 
dence and propriety. He blinked like an owl in 
daylight under this douche of strong scorn, which 
served only to turn his neutrality into obstinacy : for 
the delicacy of his sentiments was rarely questioned 
in Whitney; and Mr. Fearon felt affronted, as well as 
offended by the vulgarity of such an outburst. 

“You will of course act as you think best, sir,” 
he declared, with an exaggeration of his former chill 
precision. “But I am sure you will agree with me 
that it would be inadvisable to give publicity to such 
a taunt, unless it were possible to substantiate the 
implication which it carries in some more definite 
way.” 

Savile had got back his self-control and was about 
to make his apology, when a sudden thunder of 
cheering caused him to turn and look forward. Yar- 
borough had stepped through the French window 
of the Reformers’ smoking-room, and was standing 
on the balcony, the focus of all eyes. Darkness was 
now beginning to fall, but an electric star burst out 
suddenly from a lamp set in the front of the sound- 
139 


Yarborough the Premier 

ing-board above his head, and illuminated the ivory- 
pallor of his features : it streamed also over the faces 
of the listening multitude, and momentarily dimmed 
the white streaks of wizard-fingered lightning that 
still flickered among the dark-banked vapours of the 
north. Yarborough’s dress was in some disorder, 
and he carried his arm in a sling: his voice — for 
he began to speak at once, without waiting for the 
formality of an introduction — was so low that the 
people held their breath to hear him, and Savile 
himself felt the power of that tacit constraint, and 
was compelled to be silent, to look on dumbly at a 
drama in which, till now, he had been the chief 
actor. 

Yarborough began by apologising for his want of 
punctuality. He had been speaking that afternoon, 
he explained, at a meeting in Poplar, and had got 
into trouble with his audience, which proved to con- 
sist mainly of Radicals of the old-fashioned type, 
undisciplined individualists, tenacious of an out- 
worn creed, to whom the name of Liberal imperial- 
ism was synonymous with apostacy. He lightly in- 
dicated what had passed: it seemed that a riot had 
sprung up, in which some of his friends were severely 
handled: in his own case, however, little damage 
had been done except to his clothes, which he had 
been forced to drive home and change, thus missing 
his train at Victoria. Despite the lateness of the 
hour, he meant none the less to trespass on the pa- 
tience of his friends, if they would show their usual 
consideration towards a reluctant defaulter. 

“Mr. Yarborough means,’’ said Carteret, coming 
140 


Yarborough the Premier 


suddenly to Yarborough’s side, and resisting Yar- 
borough’s efforts to check him, “that relying on the 
good faith of his audience, he went to Poplar alone, 
without police escort: that he spoke to a hostile 
mob for close on two hours, and kept them all quiet 
by sheer pluck and eloquence, and when at last the 
platform was rushed by an organised gang, he and 
half a dozen others who had the decency to stand 
by him fought their way to the door and got clear 
away down a side street: that he’s suffering from a 
sprained arm, and bruised from head to foot, and 
that he means to speak to you till he drops.’’ 

! The cheer that went up made the old houses ring 

I again. Carteret’s thin voice did not travel far, but 
his words were repeated from lip to lip through the 
crowd, till all were deeply penetrated with admira- 
tion, except indeed Savile, who had however the 
good sense not to repeat aloud his conviction that 
Yarborough was a charlatan, and a hypocrite. 
Things do not fall out so picturesquely without a lit- 
tle retouching, Savile argued : he could believe in the 
main fact of the riot, but not in Yarborough’s pallor 
and suffering, nor in his personal gallantry, and 
least of all in his attempt to silence Carteret. 

Yarborough spoke again after a minute, and with 
his first word silence fell. He said a few words in 
deprecation and denial of Carteret’s testimony, then 
passed hurriedly from the unwelcome topic of his 
own affairs, and launched upon the broad sea of pol- 
itics. Gradually his voice gained power and clear- 
ness: he spoke with remarkable fluency, and with 
an apt delicacy of phrasing. Each sentence was 
141 


Yarborough the Premier 


plain to the poorest wit, yet so framed as to charm 
the most critical. He dealt first of all with local 
interests, showing what Liberalism had done and 
might yet do for Whitney and places like Whitney: 
sketched boldly municipal organization, social re- 
form, the practical millennium of the future: flung a 
word of generous praise to the personal honour and 
generosity of the Saviles, which caused their present 
representative to gnash his teeth, and then waved 
them into the past with an epigram of kindly, al- 
most tender contempt for fallen idols. Thence he 
passed to public questions, and Savile heard for the 
first time an analysis of the methods and ideals of 
that policy of Liberal imperialism on which Yar- 
borough’s programme was based. Amended sys- 
tems of naval and military organisation were sketch- 
ed in broad dusk outline, as the lightning plays over 
a dark heath: over the question of foreign diplo- 
macy Yarborough glided with rapid facility, vaguely 
impressive to the ignorant, but to the initiated, and 
Savile in particular, conveying a sense of miracu- 
lously detailed knowledge and foreknowledge: war 
and peace, colonial affairs, vexed questions of the 
day were dealt with in a series of pithy ironic epi- 
grams, adapted to the hour and the audience, and 
yet so packed with thought that Savile felt that he 
might profitably spend the night in their elucida- 
tion. And still behind the lucid brilliant tones that 
in little space said so much, there was the feeling 
that much more remained unsaid: Yarborough had 
not got nearly to the bottom of his sack, he was 
but taking the coined money from its mouth. 

142 


Yarborough the Premier 


Rich com, food of the starving, was treasured there 
against the day of need. 

Perplexed and fascinated, Savile was content to 
make one of Yarborough’s audience. But he was 
not prepared for a break and change in the orator’s 
charm, when, after a terminal pause, Yarborough 
took up his parable anew and spoke as no one had 
ever heard him speak before. His face, lit by the 
falling light, became transfigured, translucent, un- 
earthly: and his voice too was transfigured: an- 
gelically beautiful in its silver modulations, it seemed 
to strike upon the heart and brain through some 
medium less gross than that of the ear of flesh. Sa- 
vile caught himself thinking, “That man must have 
a marvellous tenor,’’ and that was his last conscious 
thought before he was rapt, as all were rapt, into 
a new world where nothing lived except that silver 
voice and the divine ideal of which it sang. For Yar- 
borough was pourtraying the empire — a hackneyed 
theme enough: but he painted it as St. John painted 
the new Jerusalem. Great oratory, like great music, 
has this whirlwind power, and convinces us against 
our will. But it must be sincere, sun-clear, as the 
Greeks said, or the after-fall will be great in propor- 
tion to the exaltation. The empire of Yarborough’s 
dream was a veritable queen of the sea, a daughter 
of the morning star, a goddess excellently bright: 
but she was more than that to her creator : it seemed 
that she was his very soul. It was the shrine of his 
life that he laid bare, where abstract empire sat 
throned within a living Holy of Holies. 

“Carteret, Carteret, give me some brandy!” 

143 


Yarborough the Premier 


Yarborough was leaning against the balustrade, 
white, and deadly faint. Lightning flickered in the 
dark sky : the clock was striking ten. He had spoken 
for an hour, without any one being aware of the fall- 
ing dark. A shudder went over the multitude, and 
there was an appreciable pause of universal awaken- 
ing, as men came back from under that intense do- 
minion, and, turning, looked in each other’s faces. 
In that first dissolving instant no one thought of 
Yarborough, but in a moment later, as the cramped 
minds relaxed, all turned towards him again, with 
keenest human pity and reverence. A sound which 
was like a sob broke from them, as they saw him 
sink against Carteret, his lax hand slipping from the 
balustrade. Yarborough did not faint: he drank off 
the raw brandy which Carteret held to his lips, and 
stood up. No one spoke: he waved his hand to 
the fixed multitude, threw his arm round Carteret’s 
neck, and went in-doors. Understanding that they 
were dismissed, the assemblage began to disperse 
quietly, melting away into the darkness by twos and 
threes, and talking over the events of the evening 
in voices still lowered long after they were out of ear- 
shot. 

Savile was among the first to go, breaking away 
from the mayor and the committee, who thought his 
conduct rather strange. The last word of Yarbor- 
ough’s speech timed the last moment of his enchant- 
ment: “Damned charlatan!’’ was his earliest in- 
ward cry. In his first violent revulsion he felt as 
if he had never truly known or hated Yarborough 
before: but there he did himself an injustice: ha- 

144 


Yarborough the Premier 


tred is a plant of slow growth in educated minds, and 
its seeds had been implanted long ago. Any form of 
external compulsion was foreign and distasteful to 
Savile, but of all tyrannies that of emotion was the 
most disgusting. He felt he could never forgive his 
own weakness, but still less could he forgive Yar- 
borough’s strength. He was convinced that the 
whole episode was but a piece of acting: a fact here 
and there might be true, but not all that gloss of 
colour and sensation and pathos. Yarborough was a 
hypocrite in his oratory, a liar in his courage, a char- 
latan most of all in that last poignant cry of bodily 
distress: and Savile detested him with every fibre 
of his nature. 

“Did I do it well, Carteret?’’ asked Yarborough, 
lying back wearily in his chair. “ Did I win them — 
the fools?’’ 

“Thee’s a deal too fond of calling other people 
fools,’’ said Carteret, with some natural resentment: 
he had himself been greatly moved. 

“Ah, but did I?’’ Yarborough repeated. “Tell 
me: it’s my last cast. To-morrow I win or lose — so 
very much, so much more than you, any of you, 
can understand.’’ 

“Well, I think thee wins,’’ said Carteret, glancing 
at him doubtfully: “but I’ll be hanged if I know 
precisely what thee wants to win.’’ 

“I play for high stakes,’’ Yarborough answered. 
“And I win, do I? They were properly impressed 
by that final bit of pathos?’’ 

“Did thee do it on purpose?” 

“What — that cry for help? Good Heavens! do 

xo 145 


Yarborough the Premier 

you think I could not have wound up my speech and 
got in-doors if I had liked? No, my friend: it is the 
part of the audience to be carried away, like that 
fool Savile, whom I saw out of the tail of my eye. 
He will not love me any the better for this,” Yar- 
borough ended, laughing grimly. 

“Thee acts very well,” said Carteret, in non-com- 
mittal tones, and with his back turned. 

“I act well, granted: but it’s the fertility of my 
own intellect that I admire most,” said Yarborough. 
His eyes were almost deliriously bright and he 
avoided moving, but his voice had its full sarcastic 
inflections, and he showed no other sign of weakness. 
“That row in Poplar, now, was a stroke of genius: 
I had to do something to brand my own mark on 
them deeper than the stamp of the hereditary mag- 
nate, and I flatter myself I’ve done it.” 

“Perhaps thee never went near Poplar, after all?” 

“Perhaps I have not got a sprained arm, or am 
not black and blue with bruises. Why, you fool! 
do you think I’m going to play Othello and not 
black myself all over? Cheap success is only an- 
other name for failure. Do you think I would risk 
discovery through a blabbing doctor, or a chance 
free movement of a soi-disant wounded arm?” 

“But you went to Poplar on purpose?” 

“ I went in the strength of my integrity and in the 
innocency of my faith. It was risky, of course: but 
the crown of martyrdom was always an expensive 
article. And I knew they would not kill me, they 
have not the pluck for that: besides, I carried a 
brace of loaded revolvers. I was more afraid I 
146 


Yarborough the Premier 


should not screw them up to danger-mark, after all. 
I had to give them two hours of the most exacer- 
bating doctrines I could lay hand on, before they 
would do what was expected of them. Lord, what 
fools!” He laughed again. Carteret turned, came 
to his side, and stood looking down at him. There 
were pity and affection in that glance : but there was 
also a look of judgment, which had the effect of 
sobering Yarborough’s mood of somewhat hysterical 
triumph. 

“Christian, my lad, was it all acting?” he asked, 
with a deep note of earnestness in his voice. “When 
thee talked about England, was that acting too?” 

Christian looked up and met those pleading eyes, 
with a full, reckless, brilliant glance. “You ask too 
much,” he said. “ I serve the England which makes 
me premier.” 

“Then God forgive thee for a charlatan,” said 
Carteret quietly, as he turned away. “But I 
sha’n’t throw thee over for that.” 


IX 


The Laurel Crown 

E vening again, thirty hours later. In paths 
of clear sky, between tracts of filmy vapour, the 
larger constellations glitter like diamonds: smaller 
stars are quenched by the moon, which walks in sil- 
ver, her shining disk scarcely obscured by the cob- 
webs of silver-lighted cloudland. Whitney sleeps, 
here and there a lamp burning: in the old Town 
Hall, so lately the scene of noise and excitement, 
every light is extinguished. Carteret, unable to 
compose his nerves after a day of uproar, is respon- 
sible for one of those lamps that glimmer behind 
lowered blinds, but Savile’s window is dark. Is he 
asleep? Perhaps: perhaps not. He has to get used 
to the sense of defeat, never very easy to a Savile: 
and he has been haunted all day by forebodings of a 
more intimate contest in which he will not come off 
victorious. Possibly at this hour he lies awake 
cursing Yarborough, who has won his birthright, 
and doubtless has designs upon the blessing also. 
Estcourt, who came down by a morning train in a 
saloon smoking-carriage, is sleeping assuredly: he 
has been pelted with rotten eggs by mistake for an 
unpopular county councillor, and does not intend 
to come down to Savile’s elections another time. 
148 


Yarborough the Premier 

He has been smoking in bed, and his meerschaum 
lies on a little table close to his pillow; beside it lie 
also a novel of De Maupassant with a leaf turned 
down, a glass of whisky and soda-water, and a tiny 
phial and syringe. O incorrigible idler, as well 
asleep as awake, with what a cold incongruous 
lustre does the pure moonlight flicker over that sus- 
picious little phial, evoking no sparkle from its 
brown depths! Estcourt does not care two straws 
about the issue of this or any other contest: so let 
him sleep on. 

On the up platform of Whitney station, so crowd- 
ed by day, a solitary passenger stands waiting for 
the night express, which comes in with the Han of 
a four-in-hand, bursting out of the night, streaming 
with lights of gold and opal smoke against the in- 
digo blue of the sky. The station wakes to a sleepy 
activity: a handful of sleepy travellers descend, and 
their luggage is huddled out upon the platform : 
shivering in the cold, two-o ’clock-in -the-morning 
air, they gather together their senses and their rugs. 
The solitary passenger for London springs into the 
carriage they have just quitted, but awkwardly, 
fumbling at the door: one arm is useless, and the 
face lifted in the moonlight is unnaturally pale, as 
if with sickness. A friendly giant of a porter, com- 
ing to help him in, gives a start of surprise, and 
touches his cap in an awkward, dubious way: he 
has good cause to know those imperious eyes, which 
a few hours ago looked down from the balcony of 
the Town Hall over a crowd which seemed as if it 
would never leave off cheering. 

149 


Yarborough the Premier 

“Beg pardon, sir — didn’t know ’twas you, sir,” 
he stammers. 

“ Or you would not have ventured to lift me in 
your arms like a baby? Dearest fellow, I kiss your 
hands ! Thrice blessed is the ignorance which spares 
me pain.” 

So perfect is the mimicry of Edmund Yarborough’s 
words and manner, that Christian ends in a fit of 
wild laughter: but he has the joke to himself, for the 
train slides out of the station, and George the por- 
ter goes off to confide to Simpson the guard, with 
the euphuistic delicacy of his class, a conviction that 
Mr. Yarborough, though he does pretty well on a 
platform, is either not all there or half seas over. 

On, on through the sleeping country, through the 
long panorama of field and hedge-row mapped out in 
blue and silver : whistling through a slumbrous ham- 
let, plunging with a shriek into the black concav- 
ity of a tunnel, shot like an arrow through the 
murk of a deep cutting, throbbing with slackened 
tramp along the height of a balustraded embank- 
ment : on, with flying locks of smoke threaded with 
flame, till the lights of London are in sight, and 
under that pale, familiar glow the labouring engine 
leaps, one might fancy, more eagerly forward to the 
great city of labour. Yarborough had fought and 
won, had worked like a slave from gray dawn to gray 
midnight: victory lay with him. Savile was de- 
feated, and Christian Yarborough, the incalculable 
marvel, yesterday unknown, to-day a charterless 
comet, to-morrow — who knows? — a fixed star of 
the first magnitude: Yarborough the charlatan, the 

150 


Yarborough the Premier 

wizard, the Mercury of lies and winged sandals, had 
at last got himself fairly approved by an astonished 
fatherland. Throughout the day he had played a 
mercurial part, confounding Savile’s solid arguments 
and somewhat proud persuasions with those gracious 
foreign arts of charm and banter which Savile con- 
demned as bad form. He was the keen sportsman, 
of course intensely anxious to win, but ready to lose 
with a good grace and shake hands with his rival. 
Deep beneath the ebb and flow of ambition, his in- 
most soul lay calm as the rocky bed of the sea, and 
he carried, immured by strength of will in the re- 
moter cells of his brain, a conviction of the worth- 
lessness of human life, which begins in swaddling 
bands and ends in worms’ meat. But as the day 
wore on, the excitement of fighting and acting gained 
on him, and led him into acts and speeches of dra- 
matic recklessness, which puzzled his electors, as 
they had puzzled George the porter. The crisis 
meant so much to him, so much more to him than to 
his rival. If Savile lost now, place was sure to be 
made for him at the first ensuing bye -election : but 
if Yarborough were to fail, after the naive grandeur 
of his challenge to power and possession, he would 
be not only beaten, but laughed at. Yarborough 
hated to be laughed at, and his fingers were itching 
to get hold of the reins: he felt himself able for any 
task to-day: seven years hence he might be mad, or 
dead, or, worst of all, forgotten. No doubt his view 
was exaggerated, but for him it was real: and that 
night at ten o’clock, when the votes were counted, 
and he heard that he had won, he was crazed with 

151 


Yarborough the Premier 


triumph : Herod - like, he took himself for a god. 
In his subsequent speech from the balcony he 
abandoned himself to the rapture which a bom 
orator feels in delicately handling his audience: 
fortunately, however, the most of it was drowned in 
cheers, and in the audible parts luck or instinct pre- 
served him from any signal indiscretion. But he 
did not know, and never could remember, what he 
said: he, who generally rode his emotions on the 
curb, was carried away to madness by the fustian 
triumph of an election! All in a moment, of course, 
followed the reaction: he woke up, sane and so- 
ber, cold and sick. The plaudits and the shouting 
dwindled, the glory faded, the god became a man 
again, and, manlike, suffered in the transition. 
What awakened him? The familiar vision of Ed- 
mund Yarborough’s face looking at him out of the 
night, a pale satiric commentary on his ill-gotten 
triumph. The orator faltered and was dumb. 

They said he was over-tired, and Carteret coming 
forward took him away and sent him to bed. As 
soon as he was left alone he got up, slipped out of 
the house by a back window (at imminent risk of 
being arrested for burglary), and made his way to 
the station, where the London train was due at two 
o’clock. This was madness, and he knew it, but 
dimly : he was physically in a fever. Amid the ur- 
gent preoccupation of bodily pain and weakness, one 
thought, one desire, one resolve had got hold of his 
will: to see Margaret Carew, and lay his laurels at 
her feet. 

Madness: but Yarborough did nothing by halves. 
152 


Yarborough the Premier 


This passion was strong in proportion to the strength 
with which he had thrust away the very thought 
and image of Margaret, during the weeks of the strug- 
gle at Whitney. After all, he had done what he had 
meant to do, he had won his seat, and could not 
be robbed of it: he might make a fool of himself 
now, if he chose. Fevered, reckless, with passion 
surging luxuriously in every vein, he could not help 
feeling that it was a fine thing that he should come 
literally blood-stained from the battle-field to lay 
his trophies at Margaret’s feet. Such love-making 
is out of fashion nowadays, and it was extremely 
unlikely that Savile would ever do anything so re- 
markable and so magnificent. Yarborough, with 
that phrase about the laurels ringing over and over 
in his head, still partly haunted by a glory of di- 
vinity, partly in a mood of quintessential cynicism 
which scoffed at himself, and Savile, and the world 
and all that was in it except Margaret — Yarborough 
felt that such a coup d’etat was the only act worthy 
of him at such a crisis. His politic second self, too, 
which never would let him forget the dramatic value 
of his own actions, even pointed out that many peo- 
ple, if it got known, would probably remark, “How 
touching! How charmingly old-fashioned!’’ and 
that in this way he might win the sympathies of an 
audience which he had never touched before. So to 
Moor End Yarborough must go, there to play the 
god before Margaret, and take her by storm. 

Night at a great London station: twilight, the 
hour of death, as he swung out again, but less rap- 
idly, into the shadowy gray of the country - side. 

153 


Yarborough the Premier 


The moon fell to her setting: the stars withdrew as 
daylight slowly broadened in the lucid morning 
skies. Quiet flowers drenched in dew lifted their 
pale closed faces, like a congregation of tiny ghosts, 
towards the breaking dawn. Light quickened : shad- 
ows stole softly into being from the tall, rounded elms 
over the drenched grasses, brushed down by the dew 
as if stroked by some giant hand : the interspaces of 
the clouds were tinged with aerial blue. Then came 
the sun, and night was over: in pale blendings of 
light and vapour, in flower-like luminous harmonies 
of pearl and blue and pink and lilac, day came back 
to the awakening earth. How heavenly peaceful it 
was! Yarborough sat by the open window, and the 
morning coolness breathed on him in dew and fresh 
smells and chilling wind. He shivered, and in find- 
ing himself cold awoke to the fact that he was still 
in evening dress. For the first time it occurred to 
him that he was hardly in trim for a morning call, 
with his bandaged arm marked with two or three 
spots of blood, his incongruous clothes, and general 
air of dissipation. But the phrase about the laurels 
covered all that : one does not quarrel with the 
soldier for wearing his war-stained uniform. After 
a couple of changes, he reached Moor End at seven 
o’clock, creating an immense sensation on the little 
platform, with its border of cabbage-roses and Can- 
terbury-bells. However, as he seemed to know 
what he was about, and walked straight, and gave 
up a first-class ticket, they let h^m go. It took 
him an hour to climb the steep sandy road over 
the downs, but he reached his bourne at last, fold- 
154 


Yarborough the Premier 


ed in a long hollow on the ridge of the purple, wind- 
swept moor: quitting the road, he scrambled over 
the fence, ran down between the red shafts of the 
beleaguering firs, and broke through into the rose- 
garden at the end of the lawn. 

There lay the quaint white house, steeped in sum- 
mer calm, between rich woods: the wild cool Smell 
of the firs and thymy downs blended with the per- 
fume of mown grass and budding roses. But he 
saw with a cool shock of surprise that nearly all 
the upper windows were closed, and the blinds 
drawn down, for the Carews did not breakfast till 
well after nine, as indeed he might have guessed, 
knowing Althea. His heart sank: he did so want 
to see Margaret. He felt that between the pathos of 
his sickness (for he knew now that he was sick) and 
the glamour of his triumph, Margaret really ought 
to find him irresistible. Suddenly his prayer was 
granted: one of the long windows of the dining- 
room was thrown open, and Margaret appeared on 
the threshold. 

Yarborough’s breath came in gasps: he felt suf- 
focated. The blood drummed in his ears. Margaret 
came slowly across the lawn towards the rose-bed, 
gathering her pale muslins high above the sparkling 
turf. Yarborough pressed back under a blue-black 
branch of cedar. She stepped into a winding path 
of grass between the roses: and no sooner was she 
out of sight of the house, than he stepped forward 
and stood before her, baring his head. 

“Margaret, I’ve come — ” he began. 

Margaret stood perfectly still, looking at him. 

155 


Yarborough the Premier 


Recognition and partial understanding came to her 
simultaneously, in the first glance: the best way to 
act was the afterthought of a moment. “To your 
friends,” she finished quietly, and going up to him 
she took his hand into her cool grasp. “ I’m so sorry 
to see you looking so ill. Please come and lie down. ’ ’ 

Half sobered by her touch, Yarborough dimly per- 
ceived the absurdity of what he was doing: yet he 
still clung desperately to the thing he had meant to 
say. “Listen,” he said: “you must. I came to say 
I’ve won. I’m member for Whitney. I came to 
tell you.” He had now laid his laurels at her feet: 
was it possible that she could remain unmoved? 

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Margaret said, calmly 
leading him forward, “but you shall tell me about it 
by-and-by. You aren’t well, you know, and you 
mustn’t talk, and put yourself in a fever. To please 
me, you must come quietly away and lie down.” 

He let her lead him across the lawn; but by the 
time they gained the window he had pretty well 
got back his senses. And there he stopped, and 
stood looking at her out of his great splendid eyes: 
so weak yet strong, so kinglike yet enslaved that 
her balanced calm was shaken to its foundations, 
though she would not let him see it. He had won 
Whitney, he might win England, and he was in love 
with her, and ready to give her, in literal simplicity, 
the keys of his heart. What a field of ambition for 
Peggy Carew, aged twenty-seven, with a hundred a 
year in Consols! “Good God!” he said, “what am 
I doing here? I must have been crazy! Let me 
go back.” 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Nonsense, come in to breakfast,” said Margaret. 
She made him come into the cool dark dining-room, 
and lie down on the sofa: breakfast, an irregular 
meal, was partly laid, and Margaret put a bunch of 
purple grapes into his hand. “I know you’re 
thirsty,” she said. “Eat those up, and don’t dare 
get off that sofa while I’m away.” She went out of 
the room, locking the door behind her to keep the 
servants out: she was sure Yarborough would stay 
where she had placed him. She went up to Althea’s 
room, and found that little lady eating chocolates 
while her maid did up her hair. 

“Send away your maid,” said Margaret in French. 
Then, when she was alone with the astonished Althea, 
she told her story as baldly as she could. 

“And he is down in the dining-room — actually, 
in our dining-room?” cried Althea, clasping her 
hands. “Good gracious, Margaret! My dearest 
girl!” 

She sat aghast, amid her golden shower. Mar- 
garet came behind her and began methodically to 
gather and pin it up. She said no more, having 
really nothing to say. 

“Good gracious, Peggy, how can you be so stolid?” 
Althea exclaimed, twisting round to look up into 
Margaret’s equable face. “ Of course, it’s quite 
plain what it means.” 

“Don’t twist, or you’ll make me run these hair- 
pins into your head,” said Margaret. “It means 
nothing, except that Mr. Yarborough isn’t well, and 
will have to be looked after.” 

“It’s the most romantic thing I ever heard of.” 

157 


Yarborough the Premier 


“ I wish he had got out of his evening dress,” said 
Margaret. “The servants — ” 

‘ ‘ Bother the servants ! I don’t believe you’ve any 
heart at all.” 

“I dare say I haven’t. I don’t like sensations.” 

“ But this is such a splendid one, and so compli- 
mentary to you!” 

“No, it’s silly: and Fred will be cross.” 

“After all, I don’t see anything so very out of the 
way in it !” said Althea with sudden asperity. “Why 
shouldn’t he come to breakfast? Mr. Savile did 
once.” 

“Not in evening dress.” 

“No, that’s tiresome. Couldn’t we lend him 
something of Fred’s?” 

Margaret laughed drily. “I should like to see 
him in Fred’s trousers,” she said. “Dear me, I 
hope I’m not vulgar. But they wouldn’t come down 
to his ankles, you know, dear. He might get into 
Fred’s overcoat, though,” she added, buttoning 
Althea into a Parisian moming-gown. “And then 
we could smuggle him up into Fred’s room, and 
make him lie down, while we sent for a doctor. 
None of the others are out of their rooms yet, which 
is a blessing.” 

“You’re a perfect monster!” Althea said, her in- 
dignation somewhat impeded by the fact that Mar- 
garet was tying a chiffon bow under her dimpled 
chin. “You haven’t a bit of heart, Peggy. I don’t 
believe you mean to reward him, after all.” 

‘ ‘ He must be made to send a wire for his boxes 
the first thing. I’m rather glad you’ve got a house 
158 


Yarborough the Premier 


full of people, it will make it look more ordinary. 
Nobody need know exactly how or when he arrived. 
We must let Mr. Carteret know, too, or he’ll be so 
anxious. I don’t believe he left any message for 
him.” Margaret had followed the course of the 
Whitney campaign with diligence. She had read 
the account of Yarborough’s speech and Carteret’s 
intervention, and had concluded that Mr. Carteret 
must be rather fond of him. 

“Oh, Peggy, aren’t you touched?” said Althea 
wistfully. “I should have been if Fred had done 
anything as silly as that for me: but he never did.” 

“Take your handkerchief, if you call that thing 
one, and come down,” said Margaret with calm au- 
thority. “Take everything for granted: go in and 
shake hands, and stop him — stop him at the sword’s 
point if he tries to apologise. Make fun of it, laugh 
it off, do anything but be serious. Then I’ll bring 
in the overcoat, and we’ll put him into it, and pack 
him off to bed. The door’s locked, and here’s the 
key. If you let him see that you understand that 
he — that I — that he came here for any particular 
purpose. I’ll never forgive you!” She stood in the 
doorway, her strong young hand lifted in warning. 
“Are you going to obey?” 

“I don’t see why you should order me about in 
that military way,” said Althea plaintively. “Of 
course that is just what I always meant to do. You 
needn’t be afraid — I am the very last person likely 
to say an indiscreet word, or anything that might 
compromise your dignity.” Althea relished the 
flavour of those diplomatic expressions. “But all 

159 


Yarborough the Premier 


the same, Peggy, I do think you might show that 
poor boy a little scrap of heart — that is, if you’ve 
got any.” 

“If,” said Margaret, and went away to get the 
overcoat, smiling to herself, and yet a little dissat- 
isfied. Was Althea right, after all? Was she un- 
naturally cold? She felt as if she could have been 
better pleased with herself if she had fainted, or 
gone into hysterics. 


X 


A Conference of the Powers 

“ Cecil Carteret! where are you going?” 

‘‘To Pierpont Street : and thyself?” 

“I’m just coming away from it.” 

“And couldn’t thee get anything out of that sleek 
valet of his?” 

“Nothing. He doesn’t in the least know when 
Yarborough is coming back : hasn’t heard from him 
since he went down there.” 

“And that’s ten days ago. The boy must be 
clean crazy.” 

“He may be really feeling ill,” suggested Mallin- 
son. Carteret shook his head impatiently, and, 
turning, fell into step by Mallinson’s side. 

“I’ll walk a little way with thee. I take it thee 
and I look at this business in the same light — don’t 
we?” 

“I certainly think it’s a great pity Yarborough 
should keep away just now,” said Mallinson, mild- 
ly, “if that’s what you mean. But after all, it’s 
Wemyss’s place to make a fuss, not ours. If 
Wemyss accepts his excuses — ” 

“Wemyss daren’t say he doesn’t,” put in Car- 
teret drily. 

“That’s not fair,” objected Mallinson. “Wemyss 

II i6i 


Yarborough the Premier 

needn’t keep him as his secretary if he didn’t want 
to. And I’m sure Yarborough doesn’t often get a 
holiday.” 

‘ ‘ Is this a time for a rational man to be think- 
ing of holidays? Thee talks as if he were a bank 
clerk.” 

“Well, even if he isn’t really ill — and you can’t 
be sure that he’s not, you know — it won’t do him 
much harm, because everybody thinks he is. You 
and I and De Chatillon and Mrs. Carew and her 
cousin are the only people who can have any idea of 
it. No one found out down at Whitney.” 

“Small thanks to him for that!” growled Carteret. 
“A nice piece of work I had of it, explaining and 
apologising and soothing people down with nothing 
to go on but a sixpenny telegram.” 

“Well, you needn’t have done it if you hadn’t 
wanted to,” Mallinson pointed out. “And I’m sure 
you’re glad you did do it, aren’t you? Without 
that, his defection would have been a far more seri- 
ous affair; but as things stand I can’t see that it 
matters so very much.” 

“He’s got the ball at his feet, but thee can’t see 
that it matters much whether he kicks it or not, 
provided he’s got a good excuse? George Mallin- 
son, I’m surprised at thee!” said Carteret severely. 
“Thee knows he’s throwing away all his chances.” 

“ Do you really think that?” Mallinson asked, with 
a thoughtful glance into Carteret’s eyes. “Well, I 
named him to Hayes myself.” 

“Named him to Hayes! What for?” 

“Oh, for any little thing that’s going,” said Mallin- 
162 


Yarborough the Premier 

son, blushing deeply. “Hayes and I were having a 
chat.” 

“He offered thee Downing Street, and thee re- 
fused it!” wailed Carteret, coming to a halt so abrupt 
that it brought about a collision in the rear, and up- 
set an elderly citizen, bag and all, into the gutter. 
Mallinson hurried to pick up the victim, but Car- 
teret stood wringing his hands on the pavement, 
absorbed in the contemplation of Mallinson ’s back- 
slidings. “Well, if ever there was a tomnoddy — !” 
he went on, when Mallinson rejoined him. “I should 
just like to know why thee wouldn’t take it?” 

“Oh, I’m too old,” said Mallinson cheerfully. 
“My mind’s gouty. It only shows how hard up 
they must be.” 

‘ ‘ Of course they are ! Hayes is pledged to an au- 
tumn session, and he can’t face a hostile majority of 
a hundred and sixty, can he? It looks like a dead- 
lock.” 

“ Wemyss will have to take it. I shouldn’t mind 
taking office under Randolph, though he is rather 
an — ” 

“Old foozle,” suggested Carteret. 

“Invalid, I was going to say,” returned Mallin- 
son with perfect gravity. “I doubt if his health 
would stand it : his asthma has been very bad 
since his private secretary ran away.” 

“I heard a rumour that he was going to apply for 
the Chiltern Hundreds,” said Carteret. “ If he does, 
there’ll be a pretty kettle of fish! He’s a terrible 
fool, saving your presence, but he’s the only man 
that all sections of Liberal opinion would agree to 
163 


Yarborough the Premier 


support. That comes out of my leader this morn- 
ing,” he added, peering sharply at Mallinson through 
his spectacles. 

“I know: I read it,” said Mallinson placidly. “It 
didn’t begin quite like that, though. After all, 
when you call Wemyss a fool, you use the word in a 
relative sense. You don’t mean to deny him good 
average abilities: you only mean that he’s not as 
clever as you are yourself. At least, that’s what 
your chief would mean by it.” 

“My chief I haven’t got one.” 

“Christian Yarborough, I mean. Don’t you think 
all sections might unite under him?” 

“George Mallinson, art thee raving mad?” said 
Carteret, astounded, as he often was, by the inde- 
pendence and original force of character and keen- 
ness of observation which underlay Mallinson’s quiet 
and unassuming manner. “Why, he’s only a boy.” 

“He is older than Pitt was, and the tradition of 
government lies in his family : his father was a 
great man, and might have been anything he liked 
if he had not died so young. That counts for a good 
deal.” 

“ Did thee say this to Hayes?” demanded Carteret 
sharply. Mallinson nodded. “Well, one thing’s cer- 
tain: he won’t apply to thee again.” 

“He didn’t! he never did. My dear Carteret, I 
hope you quite understand that nothing passed be- 
tween us except the merest chat?” said Mallinson 
hastily, his sensitive modesty taking alarm in a mo- 
ment. 

“As a private individual, I should of course re- 
164 


Yarborough the Premier 

spect your confidence; as a politician, I may con- 
ceivably be called upon to violate it at the command 
of patriotism. How’s that for a parody upon my 
illustrious chief, as thee calls him? Oh, is he mad, 
that boy? I could tear my hair to think of the 
chances he’s throwing away,” said Carteret bitter- 
ly. He had grown curiously fond of Yarborough 
since the eclaircissement : the weaker side of his 
nature found an attraction in Yarborough’s lavish 
and cynical strength. “If he came back, I believe 
he could galvanise even that asthmatic mummy 
Wemyss into activity. As it is, they’ll have to fall 
back on Maurice Fremantle.” 

“And why not Lord Fremantle? A very good 
man, I should say.” 

“Good man! good shadow!” cried Carteret, los- 
ing patience. “I wonder who thee’ll be putting 
forward next? Thersites Hammersley, I suppose, 
or Mainwaring Savile, if he could be got to rat.” 

“Fremantle’s very clever.” 

“Ay, that’s the worst of him: he’s nothing but 
clever. He’s clever at writing, and clever at speak- 
ing, and his speeches are stuffed with as many 
clever catchwords as a topical song at the Empire: 
he’s so clever that he’s got eyes all round his head, 
and can see sixteen sides to every question. I 
think he’s the cleverest man I know,” said Carteret. 
“He’s Mr. Facing -both -ways, that’s what he is; 
and when all’s said and done, he’s got no more to 
do with practical politics than the man in the 
moon.” 

“I think you’re hard on him. He’s never had a 

165 


Yarborough the Premier 


free hand yet, you know,” pleaded Mallinson. “ He 
has the great gift of personal charm.” 

“Yes: and charm will make a man premier of 
England when we have women’s suffrage, and not 
before,” said Carteret. “Charm, indeed! Charm 
won’t draught a workable scheme for the army — ” 

“ No : your chief has done that,” put in Mallinson 
smiling. “I pointed that out to Hayes.” 

“Thee did, did thee? And what did Hayes 
think?” 

“Thought I was crazy,” Mallinson confessed with 
a deprecating air: “but he seemed to be struck by 
what I said.” 

Carteret burst out laughing. “I dare say,” he 
said, with a chuckle. “I’m very much struck by it 
myself. In fact, I — Who’s that over there?” 

They were coming up Whitehall as he spoke, and 
Carteret’s short-sighted but observant eyes had de- 
tected a familiar figure amid a cluster of men on the 
opposite pavement. M. de Ch^tillon, flushed and 
heated, was talking at the top of his voice to a mis- 
erable vaurien seemingly of the pickpocket class, 
whom he had seized by the collar and refused to let 
go : a policeman stood by, with a tolerant but per- 
plexed expression: and a crowd was gathering rap- 
idly. Mallinson and Carteret ran across the street, 
and came up in time to hear the closing words of De 
Chatillon’s harangue. 

“Who steals my purse, steals tr-r-rash,” he was 
saying, gesticulating with his free hand; “but he 
who steals my watch an’ my chain, he steals what 
the Club des Frondeurs did me present. Ingrate 

i66 


Yarborough the Premier 

perfidious, veritable infant of a nation of shop- 
lifters — ” 

Carteret came up behind him and tapped him on 
the shoulder. “ I have something to say unto thee, 
friend,” he said in De Ch^tillon’s ear, “so let this 
wretch go.” 

Constant wheeled about and met Carteret’s eyes, 
then took his hand from the pickpocket’s shoulder. 
“I make no charge, policeman,” he said, dropping 
his fantastic manner in a moment, together with the 
worst of his accent. “Depart thou, rascal. I am 
at your service, mes amis.” 

The crowd dispersed as the pickpocket made off 
without more ado. The policeman, who betrayed 
some natural resentment, was cut short by Carteret, 
and otherwise pacified by Mallinson, and the three 
men moved on together towards Westminster. 

“ My dear De Chatillon, how can you be so ridicu- 
lous?” asked Mallinson laughing. 

“It is droll, and it amuses me,” returned the 
Parisian, shrugging his shoulders. “What would 
you have, my dear man? But what has the little 
Carteret to say to his two friends?” 

“We have been talking over this unlucky busi- 
ness of poor Yarborough being laid up,” began 
Mallinson: but Carteret thrust his discreet scruples 
impatiently aside. 

“I tell thee he knows as much as we do. What 
we want to know is, how to get that fool of a boy 
back to London.” 

“What will you have? A woman is like a wasp, 
she chooses always the finest fruit.” 

167 


Yarborough the Premier 

“A womasi?” repeated Mallinson. 

“Miss Carew, is it not so? Let us speak plainly, 
I beg of you. larbrou is in love — eh?“ 

“He’s wandering about in the moonlight, and 
eating strawberries for tea,’’ said Carteret bitterly. 
“And yet there’s good stuff in him.’’ 

“They know him in Paris,’’ said De Chatillon. 
‘ ‘ There is one little penny daily rag — you may have 
heard of it — the Vie dc Boheme — ’’ 

“Go on,’’ said Mallinson laughing. “We know 
it’s a silly little paper.’’ 

“It is no good, but it is read,’’ said the editor 
modestly. ‘ ‘ And it has always had great thoughts 
of larbrou. Now, of course — ’’ He shrugged his 
shoulders again and spread out his hands. “You 
have heard the last news, I dare say?’’ 

“What news?’’ 

“They say that M. Randolph has applied for the 
Chiltern Hundreds. It is perhaps false.’’ 

“It is quite likely to be true,’’ said Mallinson 
gravely. “Good Heavens, what an awful dead- 
lock!’’ 

“Deadlock!” cried Carteret. “Thee means, what 
a maelstrom of chances! And he is out of it all, for 
the sake of a fool of a girl who doesn’t even care for 
him! This is the wildest turn of Fate’s wheel we’ve 
had yet. Anything might happen now.” 

“ If it were six months later or six months earlier, 
it wouldn’t matter, ’ ’ said Mallinson. ‘ ‘ But he ought 
to stick to his post through the present crisis. You 
know, I can't think he’s treated Randolph quite 
fairly.” 


i68 


Yarborough the Premier 


Neither Carteret nor De Chatillon could forbear 
laughing at the grieved reluctant air with which 
Mallinson put forward his rather obvious criticism. 
“Thee don’t say so!’’ mocked Carteret. “George, 
thee astounds me! Thee shouldn’t be so unchari- 
table.’’ 

“Don’t be cynical: you’re always abusing peo- 
ple. To hear you talk of Yarborough, any one 
would think he was the greatest rascal unhung.’’ 

“I dare say,’’ said Carteret drily. 

“Then what are you friends with him for?’’ Mal- 
linson asked, with the air of one who scores a point 
in triumph. 

“I don’t know. What are you friends with him 
for, De Chatillon?’’ 

“He is a droll of a boy,” said De Chatillon, with 
an indulgent smile. “Besides, I have bet on him, 
and I desire to see him win.” 

“Thee needn’t believe us if thee doesn’t want to, 
George. There is more in it than that,” said Car- 
teret. “I love that lad, De Chatillon. I would give 
my right hand to get him away from that girl. I 
never had a son, you know. I looked forward to 
his career. I never cared the toss of a ha’penny 
about my own, but I fancied I could help him with 
his. He has youth and beauty and genius, and I’m 
old, and spent, and commonplace. I, like you, want- 
ed to see him win.” 

“He has great ideals,” said De Chatillon. “I 
would have had him win and fight for freedom.” 

“ He was very good to my boy, I know that,” said 
Mallinson simply. 


169 


Yarborough the Premier 


De Chatillon’s face was a study in conflicting feel- 
ings : he was mindful of certain words that Yar- 
borough had once let fall, and which he had never 
known whether or no to believe. “Eh bien! we 
have all good reasons, and George has the best,” he 
said. “Why then do we not act? Carteret, you 
shall write to him, is it not so?” 

“I have written.” 

“An’ — no answer?” 

Carteret shook his head. 

“So: that is bad. Well, will you hear what I 
say?” 

“Friend, I came to ask thy advice; and, what is 
more, to take it.” 

“Then go thou, and see him. Pst! I have 
spoken.” 

“What would be the good of that?” objected Car- 
teret. 

“All: nossing. See you, if he will come it is all 
right: if not, it is all done. People will not wait for 
him forever. She will throw him away, an’ he will 
try an’ come back, and he will find there is no room 
now: then he will take his pistol, an’ — plop! there 
is no more Christian Yarborough. Therefore I say, 
go, and instantly.” 

“I believe thee’s right,” said Carteret, stopping. 
“Why didn’t we think of it before? Thanks, De 
Chatillon. I knew thee’d help us. It’s the only 
thing to do.” 

“You go now?” 

“Yes: every hour is important, and why should I 
waste time?” 


170 


Yarborough the Premier 


“What a devil of a tete-k-tete you will have!” said 
De Chatillon, in a tone of somewhat grim apprecia- 
tion. “larbrou is not quite like a lost lamb.” 

“I’m awfully glad,” said Mallinson. “You’ll do 
it all right, I’m sure. And if you point out to him 
that it’s his duty, I feel certain he’ll come.” 

“Bless thy simple faith, George, it does me good 
to hear thee,” chuckled Carteret. “Remember me 
in thy orisons to-night, De Chktillon. Thee’s a 
heretic Romanist, so thee need have no scruples 
about praying for the dead.” 

He was turning to go, when both Mallinson and De 
Chktillon, moved by the same impulse, uttered the 
same hurried question: “When shall we hear?” 
Carteret looked back at them with a peculiar grim- 
ace, which signified many things. 

“Perhaps, if you’re so anxious, I’d better let you 
both have a wire to-night,” he said. “I’ll send off 
a couple of telegrams from Moor End station: ‘Yes,’ 
if I win: “No,’ if he won’t come. Ta, ta!” 

Carteret’s was not the nature to understand the 
fascination which Moor End and Margaret Carew had 
for Yarborough. As his train flashed its eager way 
through solemn plains, between ripening cornfields 
and the golden gloom of woods, he sat curled in a 
corner of a smoking - carriage with his umbrella 
across his knees, wondering how any man could be 
such a fool as to prefer the blank face of the country 
to London’s sun-coloured streets and perpetual ra- 
diance of excitement. Love was to him little more 
than a captivation of the senses, much to be depre- 
171 


Yarborough the Premier 


cated when it got in the way of business. He was a 
romantic lover of great cities, and knew of nothing 
in the world worth living for except the rewards 
they have to give. He had felt joy and pain, and 
felt them intensely, in years past, but always within 
a narrow range of perception: unlike Yarborough, 
whose versatile temperament responded to every 
voice of passion in the world. What seemed to 
Carteret a mere obsession, was to Yarborough an 
idyl: he never forgot those summer days at Moor 
End, when love and youth and glorious ambition 
crowned him with their luminous diadem. 

It was evening when Carteret got to Moor End, 
and he was told that Yarborough was in the garden. 
He went to look for him, not without misgivings, 
prepared to be consigned to Hades for his imperti- 
nence: not at all prepared to find Yarborough lying 
under a deodar on the lawn, reading Keats. So 
absorbed was the student that he saw and heard 
nothing, till Carteret poked at him with the in- 
evitable umbrella. Then he looked up, and Car- 
teret stared at him, for the arid cynicism of the 
politician had vanished: long nights of sleep and 
days of restful sunshine had already given him 
youth, freshness, and a pale Italian bloom of colour- 
ing. That first glance struck the key-note of the 
scene that followed. Duty and ambition stood op- 
posed to love and hedonism, an old quarrel: but 
Yarborough’s house was divided against itself: the 
nobler strength of his nature revolted against pleas- 
ure’s alien yoke in strong yearning for the grip of 
its old, ruthless, God-given master. 

172 


Yarborough the Premier 


Carteret struck to the heart of the question, scorn- 
ing diplomacy. “Yarborough, lad, forgive me for 
speaking,” he said, “but I must speak, whether thee 
will or no. I’m old, and thee’s nothing but a boy, 
after all.” 

“Go on.” 

“What are you staying down here for?” 

“Health,” said Yarborough. He got up and 
leaned against the red trunk of the cedar with his 
hands in his pockets : he always said of himself that 
he preferred to lie standing. “Surely you remem- 
ber how I got knocked about at Poplar?” 

“Oh, it’s sick, is it? Well, it doesn’t look it,” 
scoffed Carteret. “Don’t lie to me, lad; it’s waste 
of time. Thee came to make love to a chit of a 
girl.” 

“Suppose I had,” said Yarborough, his silken 
voice suddenly taking an edge of brutal meaning. 
“I dare say I should neither drink nor beat my 
wife.” 

“No. . . . What a cad you are! Hit as hard 
as you like, I sha’n’t budge till I’ve said my say 
out. Do you know you’re ruining yourself?” 

“By taking a week’s holiday? I should be flat- 
tered to believe it, but I think you exaggerate the 
importance of my position.” 

“By no means,” Carteret assured him drily. “A 
man need not be a C. O. to ruin himself if he runs 
away on active service. Thee seems to forget that 
Randolph Wemyss’s paid secretary has no busi- 
ness to go philandering off after any pretty face he 
takes a fancy to.” 


173 


Yarborough the Premier 


‘“Who art thou that judgest another man’s ser- 
vant? To his own master he standeth or falleth,’” 
quoted Yarborough. “ Do you ever read the Bible ? 
It is worth reading.” 

“It’s a question of common honesty.” 

“It’s a question of common-sense. Need you 
object, if Mr. Wemyss doesn’t?” 

‘‘I’m too much thy friend to hold my tongue.” 

‘‘Oh, the candid friend — !” Yarborough shrugged 
his shoulders with an air of boredom. ‘‘Really, 
Carteret, that r61e is played out.” 

Carteret stepped forward suddenly and laid his 
white babyish hand on Yarborough’s arm. ‘‘Chris- 
tian, don’t get thyself caught by a woman. Don’t!” 
he pleaded. ‘‘Take it from a man twice thy age, 
that’s known as many women as dead men. She 
mayn’t mean to do any harm — I believe she’s good 
enough, as girls go — but she’ll drag thee down from 
thyself, play Lucilia to thy Lucretius, break thy 
purposes, force thee to hire out thy soul to pay her 
milliner’s bills.” 

‘‘Are you giving me the fruit of your own obser- 
vation of women? You have certainly had some 
varied experiences.” 

Again Carteret started, and wdnced under the 
cutting words: but he was not to be turned aside. 
‘‘Do you think she’ll have you?” he asked. 

‘‘I think you are becoming a trifle coarse: how- 
ever, in strict confidence. I’ll own to you that I 
think she will.” 

‘‘O Lord!” said Carteret, and suddenly began 
to laugh. ‘‘O Christian, lad, I don’t think she will. 

174 


Yarborough the Premier 


Women don’t like to be taken for granted: she’ll 
never tolerate that insufferable self-conceit of thine,” 

“Do you think not?” was Yarborough’s low- 
toned answer: then, in a sudden fiery casting-aside 
of reticence (which was to him no fortress of silent 
council, as to Savile, but rather a mask, put on out 
of regard for other men’s timorousness), he went on: 
“You — you are in the right to preach to me of the 
love that debases, you who worshipped at the hun- 
dred shrines of the Paphian Venus. What do you 
know about love? The wife you killed knew more 
of it than you do. My love for Margaret is as pure 
as^liat of a priest for the Virgin: purer: it gets no 
fortification from tinsel crowns and humbugging 
miracles. I love her for what she is, flesh and 
blood for flesh and blood, spirit for spirit. Keep 
your Franco-Latin amours: give me the old Saxon 
word, fresh from the earth, earth -clean, sun -pure. 
Margaret drag me down? Margaret will make me 
greater than I ever could be without her. She’d 
make me good as well, if it were within the power 
of mortal to do it: but I own I fear that’s beyond 
her.” 

“And Edmund?” 

“To the devil with Edmund ! Margaret will never 
know.” 

This last piece of racy wickedness was more than 
even Carteret had expected: after it he felt he 
might as well quit the field. But his blood was up: 
he had suffered under Yarborough’s rough and 
unscrupulous handling of his terrible history: he 
was not minded that Yarborough should go scathless. 

175 


Yarborough the Premier 


'‘Thee thinks thy master’s too much of an old 
fool to send thee packing, whatever tricks thee may 
play upon him : but take care not to reckon without 
thy host, lad.” 

‘‘Mr. Weymss has not recalled me,” said Yar- 
borough haughtily. 

Carteret grinned. ‘‘Not he! He daren’t. But 
how if thee found no place to come back to.?” 

‘‘What, he’s not dying?” 

‘‘I like thy grief, lad, it’s so genuine. No, he’s 
not sick, so far as I know, except from pining for 
his precious secretary: but he’s sick of public life. 
This morning De Chatillon told me he has definitely 
applied for the Chiltern Hundreds.” 

Carteret was deeply fond of this lad, with an af- 
fection which was not to be shaken by the inter- 
change of small amenities, but he enjoyed the utter- 
ance of those words, and their staggering effect upon 
Yarborough. ‘‘Do you mean that he is going to 
get out of Parliament?” he cried incredulously. 

Carteret nodded. ‘‘His asthma is worse again,” 
he said with a significant grimace. 

‘‘What’s that?” 

‘‘In plain English, he’s afraid of the responsibil- 
ity, now that he hasn’t got Lucifer at his elbow to 
prompt him.” 

‘‘Have you any guess at the man who will take 
his place?” 

‘‘Mallinson has already declined the honour, and 
Hammersley could never patch up a cabinet. Prob- 
ably they will return to Maurice Fremantle.” 

‘‘Lord Fremantle? Six months in office — I give 
176 


Yarborough the Premier 


him a year, at the outside: then some villainous 
foreign entanglement, and a crash: no Liberal pro- 
gramme: no leader: our side split into a dozen. fac- 
tions, at odds with each other and with him: the 
Saviles in good discipline, fighting like death to 
utilise every split — There, there!” 

“Exactly,” agreed Carteret, “and then Hayes 
will get a fresh lease of power, and that will clap a 
nice little extinguisher over maiden ambitions — eh? 
Not much chance for a free-lance with Jocelyn 
Hayes in office!” 

“It’s the work of years undone. In six months 
we shall be back where we were before. Fremantle, 
of all men! as if their last experience of him were 
not enough.” 

“It’s all thy own fault. I always told thee how 
it would be, if Weymss was left for long to his own 
devices.” 

“As for me. I’m ruined. It may be a dozen years 
before I get such another chance — I, an outsider, 
without interest, and not over-much beloved by 
Fremantle and his crew. And who can tell what 
may happen between this and then? Power I must 
get, I must have it: and at once: good Lord, to 
think of Fremantle meddling in the East!” Yar- 
borough caught Carteret’s hand, and held it locked 
between his narrow fingers: the pale virile face 
showed the lover transformed into the statesman 
and preoccupied by intense and restless thoughts. 
“When did you say was the next train up?” 

“Let me look at my watch, will thee? Well — it 
goes in forty minutes.” 


177 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Go in and explain — tell them Wemyss has 
wired to me. Or, no: you don’t tell lies, I forgot. 
Say what you will, but get me excused. Tell 
the man to pack my things and send them after 
me. 

Carteret’s face was a study in emotions hard to 
classify. “ I like thy use of the imperative,” he ex- 
claimed. “And what about Margaret?” 

“She will suffer, but it can’t be helped. Tell 
her things have gone wrong in town: she knows 
that I could never endure to stand by and see things 
undone that want doing. It is Margaret for un- 
derstanding: she’ll not be jealous, she will only be 
sorry. Tell her I’ll come back again, and with 
fresher, finer laurels to lay at her feet.” 

Under the ambiguous and delicate circumstances 
of Yarborough’s position with regard to Margaret, 
this was a message which Carteret entirely lacked 
courage to deliver. He had no desire to face Mar- 
garet’s wrath, still less her ridicule, and he would 
have said as much, but he had not time. With 
his last word Yarborough broke away from him, 
threaded the fir plantation, and vaulted the fence 
on to the downs. Carteret followed, and from the 
outskirts of Althea’s garden watched him cross the 
wind and sun beaten heights of thymy turf, his step 
rapid and springing, his head thrown back in the 
face of the sunlight: a creature marvellously alive, 
his lips moving in dumb recitation of thoughts and 
schemes which were by -and -by to be built into 
the fabric of empire. Resentment faded from Car- 
teret’s mind as he watched him: and pride and tri- 
178 


Yarborough the Premier 


umph alone spoke in the telegrams which a few 
hours later he despatched to Mallinson and to De 
Chatillon : 

“Moor End, 8.10 p.m. 
“Ecce Christian, exit Fremantle. 


“Carteret.” 


XI 


Noon: In the Jewel-shop 

A WEEK later, under a wonderful August sky, 
Yarborough stepped for the last time across 
the threshold of his master’s house, and stood on 
the pavement a free man. It was no more than a 
week since his return, but it seemed like a year, so 
much had come and gone in the interval. Political 
affairs had gained the height of a crisis: no one 
knew what was going to happen, not even Yarbor- 
ough himself, despite his intricate knowledge of the 
working of men and events. He had done his best 
with Mr. Wemyss, but the invalid was obstinate, and 
clung to the prospect of a peaceful winter at Nice: 
he even ventured, with the privileged audacity of 
a sick man, to come to a quarrel with his secretary, 
whose services were no longer necessary, and send 
him about his business. Yarborough was thankful 
for this timely release, and expressed his gratitude 
in t;erms which annoyed Mr. Wemyss and horrified 
the doctor and nurse: but they parted friends, for 
Wemyss, like every man who came much into con- 
tact with Yarborough, was so far fascinated by his 
indubitable genius as to admire him and wish him 
good luck. 

Across the intense golden blue of the sky sailed 
i8o 


Yarborough the Premier 


a throng of heavy rain-clouds, gray as iron, break- 
ing into patches of smoky silver where the light 
flashed between them like sword-blades: wind and 
gold and rainy blue made up a symbol of Yarbor- 
ough’s life, which was breaking now to broader 
issues. Everything was uncertain : Wemyss was out 
of the running, and rumour said that Fremantle, 
the least practical of men, had suddenly developed 
theories upon one or two important questions which 
would make it impossible for him to get or keep a 
Cabinet together. Yarborough’s own position was 
unparalleled: he was in everybody’s confidence, ex- 
cept Hayes’s, who had no confidants, and was in a 
fair way to become titular as well as virtual leader 
in the Lower House. Meanwhile Hayes made no 
sign, the autumn session drew on apace: bets ran 
high: Yarborough’s name was freely spoken, and 
most seriously by those who knew most. No one 
knew what a day might bring forth. In all this, 
Margaret was no more forgotten than the sun be- 
hind a cloud, whose presence gives light, though his 
image is invisible. Yarborough, working twenty 
hours out of the twenty-four, was driven on, ani- 
mated, inspired by the hope of laying such glorious 
laurels at her feet as might be worthy even of Mar- 
garet’s acceptance. 

Driving rapidly eastward in a hansom through 
the rich Belgravian squares, Yarborough utilised 
his leisure by making notes of a speech shortly to 
be delivered before the Liberal League. It was an 
axiom of his never to waste moments, and besides 
he liked to show himself to the public in statesman- 
181 


Yarborough the Premier 


like vignettes: no ruse was too petty for Yar- 
borough’s wit. He got out at the Piccadilly end 
of Bond Street, and walked up it, meeting ac- 
quaintances at every step, and here his manner , 
changed, for among the idle rich his cue was to : 
play the man of the world, who keeps great affairs j 
in the background: and admirably he played it. j 
“Hallo, Yarborough! whither away?” : 

“To Brook Street, on business, if you know what 5 
that is.” 

“Too bad, upon my word! I’m dying of heat, j 
and I can’t get my lord to budge till Hayes does 
something. I tell you what it is, if you Parliament- ; 
ary chaps don’t settle your affairs before the twelfth ^ 
there’ll be a revolution.” j 

‘ ‘ Headed by the Honourable Lorraine Lempriere ? 
That will be formidable indeed!” 

“I say, why weren’t you at the Carews’ dance 
last night?” asked the exquisite, languidly flicking 
a grain of dust from Yarborough’s sleeve. “I 
looked for you.” 

“Are they back in town? I did not know it.” ' 
“Carew was recalled — man that can’t be spared, ' 
don’t you know? The great Savile was there, danc- ! 
ing with his fiancee. I think her pretty, don’t you ?” 'j 
“Mainwaring Savile engaged? By Jove, I hadn’t r 
heard it. Who is she?” I 

“Mrs. Carew’s cousin, the girl with the eyes. I | 
like her: she’s not a bit like a London girl, but she | 
dresses h merveille, and puts on her clothes like a I 
Frenchwoman. — Hold on to me a moment, and 1 
don’t try to talk, or you’ll make a scene.” j 

183 j 


Yarborough the Premier 


It was only for a few seconds that the earth rocked 
and the heavens spun round Yarborough: he woke 
to find Lempriere, a diplomat by trade, holding him 
steady with a hand on his arm, and talking exceed- 
ingly fast to cover deficiencies. 

“Thanks very much: I am a fool. You’ll not 
give me away?’’ 

Lempriere bowed. “Rely on me,” he said, with 
a glance which asked no questions and drew no 
inferences. 

“And, by -the -by, don’t spread that report: I 
fancy it will have to be contradicted.” 

“Very well. If you’re going on to Brook Street 
you’ll meet Savile, I expect, for I saw him in at Man- 
ton’s as I passed. But if I were you I should go 
home: a touch of the sun is not to be trifled with, 
and it’s fearfully hot this morning.” 

“Many thanks, but set your mind at rest; we 
sha’n’t quarrel. Good-bye.” 

“Au revoir,” said Lempriere, ceremoniously lift- 
ing his extravagant Panama. He watched with ad- 
miration Yarborough’s dexterous navigation of the 
crowded pavement. “There goes a man hard hit, 
for all he carries it off so well,” so ran his unuttered 
reflection, and his thin, fair face wore a troubled 
look as he sauntered down to his club. 

Yarborough knew Manton’s well enough: he was 
an amateur of precious stones, and loved the great 
jewel-shop, with its sequence of chambers darkened 
by narrow windows and heavy eaves. He liked to 
stroll for half an hour through the hot rooms, dark 
as a November evening, with his own hand setting 

183 


Yarborough the Premier 


electric stars to flash over tall cabinets and crystal 
tables, as the whim took him. All good customers 
were free to do this, and Yarborough was a good 
customer in M ant on’s eyes, for he knew and loved 
the life of stones. Here were diamonds, worth a 
king’s ransom, rivers of white light flashing with 
multitudinous fires: wine - tinted almandines, fire- 
rubies, garnets from the Russian mines like drops 
of blood set on fire: turquoises smuggled from the 
treasuries of Teheran, and blue as the Reuss under 
its bridges : topaz, and opal, unluckiest of fair stones : 
sapphires rivalling the First Edward’s, got from the 
Capelau Mountains: sunset -green of emeralds, and 
virginal moonlight of pearls, wrought into enamelled 
settings, or upon a hoar-frost of gold. 

Yarborough found Savile alone in the farthest 
room, bending over a tray of loose rings, interlaced, 
emitting sparks, and seeming to twist and writhe 
like a nest of vipers as the light of an electric corona 
pulsed and flickered over them. Hearing a step, 
he looked round, and slightly bowed, but did not 
speak: he was not one of those men who rush into 
words when they find themselves awkwardly placed. 

“The workmanship of those rings is very fine,” 
said Yarborough. His voice sounded so strange 
and abrupt in his own ears that he thought Savile 
would stare at him: but Savile stood motionless and 
quiet, examining the jewels without handling them. 
“Manton is a great man: he understands the life of 
stones, which to most jewellers represent only a 
means of making money.’’ 

“It is fine work,’’ Savile agreed, indifferently. 

184 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I’m a bit of an amateur myself, and so he gives 
me the trade discount, and the run of the place: but 
they say he refused half a million of dollars for a 
necklace of mediocre sapphires, sooner than let it 
fall into the hands of a Chicago pork-butcher.” 

“He’s an eccentric.” 

“It was only a rumour, of course. I don’t pin 
much faith to rumours in London. I heard one to- 
day which I am anxious to get contradicted.” 

“I never listen to rumours.” 

“ This plique-k-jour enamel- work, how fine!” Yar- 
borough lifted a fairy -like bracelet, and held it to 
the light. “It’s like a pattern of tiny beetles’ wings 
caught in a gold cobweb. — Well, aren’t you curious?” 

“Not I.” 

“Do you let London take your name in vain?” 

“Excuse me one moment,” said Savile, going 
quickly forward to intercept Manton, who was 
coming from the inner shop with a casket in his 
hand. But he was too late to hide from Yarborough 
the nature of the casket, the crest and initials of 
Lord Ferdinand Savile on the lid, or the blaze of 
family diamonds displayed when Manton threw it 
open. 

“I have recut as well as reset the centre stones 
of the necklace,” he heard the great jeweller say. 
“You’ve gained in brilliancy more than you’ve lost 
in carats, Mr. Savile, and I’m sure your lady, if she’s 
a woman of taste, would never grudge to have the 
pretty things pruned for their own good.” 

Savile went into the next room with Manton and 
spoke to him for a few minutes: then he came back 
i8s 


Yarborough the Premier 


I 


to Yarborough and the tray of rings, and took up 
the conversation where he had dropped it. “ London 
is generally taking some name in vain : to-day mine, 
to-morrow it may be yours.” 

“Are you going to be married, that you have your 
heirlooms tinkered up?” demanded Yarborough. 

“You heard Manton say they were badly cut.” 

“And you take no interest in rumours? Admi- 
rable indifference! but the lady — you don’t think of 
her.” 

“The lady! what lady?” asked Savile, turning 
sharp round on Yarborough. 

“The lady with whose name yours is linked by 
rumour.” 

“What is the rumour?” 

“That you are engaged.” 

“To—?” 

“Miss Margaret Carew.” 

“ I thought you said you wished to contradict it?” 

“I always wish to contradict what is not true.” 

Savile shrugged his shoulders . ‘ ‘ Please yourself, ’ ’ 

he said. 

“Aren’t you going to answer me?” 

“Have you asked me any question?” 

“Do you mean to give out that you are engaged 
to Margaret Carew?” 

“It is not I that have given it out: I never 
discuss my private affairs.” 

Yarborough did most heartily wish himself back 
in the days of the duel: he felt that he had re- 
ceived ample provocation. “You refuse to give me 
any answer?” he asked. 

i86 


Yarborough the Premier 


“In what capacity do you inquire?” 

“Miss Carew has done me the honour to call me 
her friend.” 

“I don’t recognise your claim,” said Savile. He 
took a ring from the tray, a marquise hoop of 
glorious diamonds, every stone flashing like a dew- 
drop, and stood turning it this way and that as he 
spoke, apparently giving more of his attention to 
the jewels than to Yarborough. “The fact is, you 
haven’t any. I never quarrel with men of your 
stamp, but still less do I allow them to cross-exam- 
ine me on my private affairs.” 

“You typical Englishman, why don’t you mend 
your manners? I dislike you twice as well as you 
dislike me, but I don’t let my inclinations get the 
better of my courtesy. Miss Carew is an unpro- 
tected girl. I hear her name dragged into a report 
which I know to be false, and ask you to contradict 
it. What unjustifiable claim do I make there?” 

“If you know it to be false, contradict it your- 
self.” 

“It is false.” 

Savile stood looking down at him, indolently 
ironical, incuriously keen. “You are damnably 
afraid it’s true,” he remarked. 

“You refuse to contradict it?” 

“I haven’t heard it yet — except from you.” 

“You will compel me to act in a way which you 
will probably find disagreeable,” said Yarborough, 
white with rage, and showing his worst qualities, as 
he generally did in Savile’s society. “I shall not 
stand by and see a lady’s name dragged into pub- 
187 


Yarborough the Premier 


licity : I shall put the whole case before Miss Carew. 
Of course I shall not speak of your present extraor- 
dinary conduct unless I am forced to do so.” 

“Don’t think you’ll gain much by that move, if 
you do.” 

“I have no wish to gain anything. I simply 
desire to get Miss Carew ’s leave to contradict a 
lie.” 

“I should imagine you’ll only make a fool of 
yourself if you meddle.” 

“Are you engaged to her, then?” 

“I thought you were sure I was not.” 

“She loves me, not you.” 

Yarborough’s voice rang like a harp-string, and 
Savile glanced apprehensively over his shoulder. 
“Take care, you’ll be heard,” he exclaimed. “And 
keep your wits about you, man: you’ll be sorry for 
this to-morrow.” 

“No one is within earshot, and I like candour,” said 
Yarborough with his grim laugh. He was not in the 
habit of repenting of his indiscretions, from which a 
saving element of calculation was rarely absent. All 
must be fair and open between him and Savile, since, 
if it came to stabs in the dark, Savile held a more 
potent weapon than any in Yarborough’s armoury. 
“She is mine. She may have given herself to you 
out of pique, not understanding how I was forced to 
leave her: but she is mine by a spiritual pre-con- 
tract. She and I are kith and kin, predestined to 
love and marry. As to you, you’ve nothing in 
common with her, and I shall hold myself justified 
in getting her to break her engagement.” 

i88 


Yarborough the Premier 

“You’re making a fool of yourself now, you 
know.’’ 

“I shall go to Margaret to-day.” 

“Do,” said Savile absently. He replaced the lid 
on the tray, and picked up his gloves and cane. 
The interview was over, and the honours of it lay 
with Savile, who had contrived to be intolerably 
rude without losing his temper, and to foil Yar- 
borough’s questions without once pronouncing Mar- 
garet’s name. Yarborough followed him to the 
centre of the shop, blind for once to the play of 
fire about him: nothing short of Savile’s suddenly 
dropping dead would have satisfied his wrath. He 
noticed that Savile paid for the ring and took it away 
with him: the price he did not hear, but from the 
splendour of the brilliants and the delicacy of their 
antique silver setting he judged it to be extravagant. 
They passed together from the hush and dimness 
of the shop into the roar and glitter of Bond Street 
under fiery sunshine: and parted on the pavement 
to go different ways, and meet again later in the 
day. 


XII 


Afternoon : Love like a Fire 

M ARGARET’S private room was big and bare, 
quaint and brown, and had a north light; 
and Margaret herself, in a brown holland overall, 
stood before a tall white ashwood easel in the broad 
window, putting the last touches to a study in oils. 
Wooded hill-tops bronzed by sunset rose out of the 
cold blue shadows of a valley into the warm blue of 
an autumn sky flecked with orange clouds: in the 
foreground stood the inevitable gabled cottage, but 
Margaret had shown her originality by rejecting the 
almost equally inevitable little girl in a sunbonnet 
leaning over a rustic gate. She eyed her handiwork 
dubiously: she knew that ft was very bad, but did 
not know enough to set it right. A fancy crossed 
her mind that the picture might be taken as typical 
of her life in its incompleteness. Margaret was tired 
of eating and drinking, doing up her hair in curlers, 
changing her dress every three hours, and hearing 
herself described by Althea’s lady visitors as a 
sweet amiable girl: she could not help wishing 
that something would happen, even if it were some- 
thing disagreeable. Pat to the moment of her 
thought, came the voice of Thompson the second 
footman, loftily unconscious of the sovereign he had 
190 


Yarborough the Premier 


just pocketed, suavely announcing: “Mr. Christian 
Yarborough.” 

Margaret’s face lit up. “Oh, it’s you,” she said 
holding out her hand. “ I’m so glad. But how stu- 
pid of Thompson to show you into this untidy room. 
Never mind, you shall come and tell me what to do 
about my picture if you like. You are a critic, aren’t 
you? I know you know everything.” 

Yarborough thrust hisKands into his pockets and 
stood before the easel, surveying Margaret’s handi- 
work with a caustic glance. “Ah! impressionist, I 
see,” he remarked. “Strikingly harmonious colour- 
scheme, handled in a broad and convincing style. 
Miss Carew: the light is admirably stage-managed 
and the contrasts are subtly rendered.” 

“Oh, not any more, please,” said Margaret. “I 
looked for something better from you. Let’s settle 
that it’s a symphony in C minor, with a flute obbli- 
gato in the middle distance and a trombone passage 
in the chiaroscuro : and now will you kindly tell me 
why my walls are tumbling down?” 

“If you really wish me to tell you, I should 
imagine that it’s because you have never learned 
to paint.” 

This was rude enough to satisfy even Margaret’s 
craving for candour, and she gasped under it, but 
bore up heroically. “Thank you,” she said. “I’d 
a kind of idea that that might have something to 
do with it : but let me know the worst at once. Is it 
young-lady-like ? ’ ’ 

“ Eminently,” said Yarborough. “ Why don’t you 
learn perspective before you try to paint ? And yet 
191 


Yarborough the Premier 


you have artist’s blood in you: there is colour and 
wind on that bit of dirty canvas. You’ve a marvel- 
lous capacity for living: how is it that you are sat- 
isfied with your trumpery existence?” 

“Dear me, I wanted things to happen and now 
they’re happening!” thought Margaret. There was 
exhilaration in the prospect. “So like a man!” she 
said derisively. “What do you know about my ex- 
istence, and how can you possibly tell whether I’m 
satisfied with it?” 

“Am I to understand that you aren’t satisfied? 
Are you ambitious?” 

This was a question which Margaret did not 
choose to answer, except by a little Frenchified 
shrug. Yarborough laughed. 

“If a man were to offer you place, power, pres- 
tige, a hand in the great political game, what would 
you say?” 

“I should say ‘No, thank you,’ and drop him a 
pretty curtsey.” 

“But if he came and told you that he loved you 
into the bargain? If he came to you all sin-stained 
and worn with the world’s work, and offered you the 
love that’s like a fire, to purify and hallow his life 
and your own : the indestructible kind, not the kind 
that wears out on the honeymoon, but the kind 
that’s eaten its way into the very foundations of his 
nature: if he came and said, ‘Take me, that in a few 
days, or years, will be at the head of the British Em- 
pire, and make me into what you like: make me into 
a plaster saint if you like: govern me, and Europe 
through me — ’ Well! What then, Margaret?” 

192 


Yarborough the Premier 

“Why then I should know he was talking non- 
sense, to be sure!” said Margaret. 

Again Yarborough uttered his grim little laugh. 
“Well, I say all that,” he said coolly. “And I 
never talk nonsense, Margaret.” 

Margaret put up her chin with a little mocking 
movement. “I shotlld like to see you turn into a 
plaster saint,” she said. “As if everybody didn’t 
know that the one and only way to keep you from 
doing what you want to do is to tell you to do it !” 

“ Oh yes, with men,” Yarborough agreed un- 
abashed, “but not with you. I tell you I love you, 
Margaret : no heroine of a penny novelette was ever 
loved more sentimentally. I love the prismatic 
colours that the sun makes in that brown hair of 
yours: I love the way you crook your little finger 
out when you pick up your teacup : I love all your 
pretty untidy ways, the pins and needles that you 
will stick into the lapel of your coat, the extraor- 
dinary knack you have of getting your hat crooked, 
the lift of your feet when you walk, and the queer 
way you put your shoulders when you’re talking to 
people who bore you. I believe no man was ever 
more idiotically in love than I am, and yet — and yet 
you could lift me up to God.” 

“All that would be very interesting, if I loved 
you: but the question is. Do I?” 

“That is not the question in the least. You were 
in love with me when I left you at Moor End.” 

“Was I?” Margaret asked, in a refiective tone. 
“You may be right: I really don’t know. Is fas- 
cination the same as love, do you think?” 

193 


13 


Yarborough the Premier 


“My dear girl, you as good as confessed it that 
first morning on the lawn. Those eyes of yours 
betray you.” 

“I don’t think it’s nice of you to be so positive: 
and, anyway, why did you go away if you were so 
sure?” 

“Ah! so you were jealous, were you?” Yarbor- 
ough made a step toward her, but Margaret backed 
against the table and put out her hands to keep him 
off. “I had to go: I can’t explain why — women 
never understand politics. I went” — again that 
haunting phrase recurred — “to win laurels worthy 
to be laid at your feet. I wanted to be King of 
England, that I might make you Queen.” 

“But the Guelphs are quite safe really, aren’t 
they?” Margaret said, lifting her eyebrows. “I 
shouldn’t like — ” 

“Esprit malin, va! How you suit me, Margaret! 
When we’re married we’ll confound the Christians 
by giving them a practical illustration of their own 
doctrine of the sacrament of marriage.” 

“Will we? I wouldn’t: I’d rather live my life to 
God and myself than to the world.” 

“When I win a victory, I like the world to know 
it,” Yarborough admitted. “I like the flags and 
the triumphal arches. I like to get the mob down 
at my feet: it’s what they’re fitted for. Nine-tenths 
of the world were created to admire the other tenth, 
and they’re only happy when they’re doing it. 
That’s why we talk of the curse of civilization, 
which makes men equal.” 

“And which tenth of the world do you admire, 
194 


Yarborough the Premier 

pray?” flashed out Margaret shrewdly. “Oh, arro- 
gant!” 

“Myself, and — you. You first, self next as your 
lover, and the world infinitely last.” 

“What’s so odd about you, is that you parade 
your vices as if they were virtues.” 

“Love for you is the only virtue I pretend to.” 

Margaret pushed back her hair with nervous 
fingers: she felt nothing but embarrassment under 
Yarborough’s ardent and masterful glance. Nor 
did she feel less shy when she caught sight of her 
own reflection in the mirror, looking like a tall slip 
of a school-girl in her loose pinafore besmeared with 
paint. “ But I haven’t given you any answer,” she 
said rebelliously. “I haven’t said yes.” 

“Your eyes said it for you, that first evening 
when we met in the Strand.” 

“My eyes say a great deal, according to you: I’m 
quite sure they never said anything of the kind.” 

“I like you ten times better for the salt of con- 
tradiction in you: I like you to provoke and defy 
me, and keep me at arm’s-length. I should despise 
a woman who was afraid of me.” 

Margaret gave a little mutinous glance. “You 
never will despise me on that score,” she said. 

“On the contrary, it is you who make a fool of 
me, who make me commit a thousand imbecilities, 
and give myself away like a boy of twenty. Do you 
imagine I care for that? Laugh as much as you 
like, and call me a fool and an egotist: I take my 
revenge, my dear girl — so.” 

He stepped forward, and took her in his arms. 

195 


Yarborough the Premier 


Margaret uttered a sharp exclamation: she could 
hear his heart beat, strong and even, under her 
cheek. He bent over her and kissed her again and 
again. Under those kisses, Margaret’s uncertainty 
vanished like a dream. She woke suddenly to a 
full knowledge of her own nature, and found herself 
at last endued with the mature strength of woman- 
hood, with novel powers and capacities and affinities, 
long latent and unsuspected, yet innate. Unable 
to free herself, she waited the more patiently be- 
cause she had no longer the slightest fear or doubt. 
As for Yarborough, he was in heaven. In tenacity a 
Saxon, in fire a Celt, in life ascetically pure, he was 
precisely of the right age to love and marry. He 
had gained the experience of middle age without 
satiety, and had outlived the unreasonable illusions 
of youth while retaining its freshness. He bent 
over her, looking down into her eyes, his face so 
wrought by pure and tender passion that even to 
Margaret its expression was a revelation. “This — 
this is worth living for,” he said, his rich voice a 
caress: and then, with a bitterness of regret which 
made Margaret’s heart ache, “O Margaret, how 
barren the world is, after all!” 

Margaret struggled against a sudden inclination 
to sob. “Oh, I’m so sorry — I’m so sorry!” was all 
she could say. 

“Sorry for Savile, do you mean? Ah, well, you 
shall teach me to be generous.” 

“No: sorry for you.” 

“You’re a true woman. Why should you pity a 
man who does not envy the angels their felicity?” 

196 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Let me go, please,” said Margaret gravely. 
She stepped back and leaned against the wall, one 
arm thrown out along the frame of her easel, her left 
hand fidgeting with her apron, her pretty ankles 
crossed. Something in her attitude and in the clear 
directness of her eyes seemed to set her suddenly a 
long way off from Yarborough. “Mr. Yarborough, 
will you believe,” she said slowly, “that I do not 
care for you at all?” 

Yarborough was dumb. 

“ I do like you as a friend, and I was silly enough 
to let you dazzle me with all that nonsense about 
kings and queens. But I have not one particle of 
love for you, and never shall.” 

“But you let me kiss you?” 

“I didn’t want you to, only you would do it. I 
didn’t like it at all.” Margaret’s colour came: she 
put up her hand to brush away the physical memory 
of contact. “ I disliked it very much,” she repeated. 

“God! you can’t mean it,” said Yarborough. 
“You, the only woman I ever loved, my second self, 
the incarnation of my hope of heaven — ” 

“Please, please, don’t, you hurt so!” 

“You don’t mind sending the man who loves 
you to the devil?” 

“I would not submit to your love-making — no, 
not if it were to save your soul!” 

The light, the fire, the power, the passion, the 
pleading faded out of Yarborough’s face: he put 
his hands in his pockets and turned on his heel with 
a laugh, profoundly ironical, impartially apprecia- 
tive of the satiric aspect of his destiny. 

197 


Yarborough the Premier 


“The Lord have mercy upon fools!” he said, over 
his shoulder. “I hope you are a good raconteuse, 
Miss Carew: this story might be made amusing.” 

“I think it is awfully sad,” said Margaret, ear- 
nestly. “Mr. Yarborough, please don’t think that 
we — that I — ” 

“That you and Mrs. Carew will laugh over it to- 
gether? I give you free leave. Don’t spare me: I 
deserve ample castigation.” 

Margaret glanced at him reflectively. “Well, 
you have made rather a fool of yourself,” she owned. 
“ If it was anybody else I’d try to be tactful, but you 
always see through any humbug. And yet, do you 
know, I don’t feel the least inclination to laugh at 
you. I’d really rather cry.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t pity me. I have al- 
ways considered sympathy a peculiarly ill-bred 
form of officiousness.” 

Margaret laughed drearily. “Ah, you’re be- 
ginning to find out what a fraud I am,” she said. 
“I’m really only the clothes-peg you hung your 
ideals on. I never can get my emotions straight — 
never love the people I ought to love. In fact, I 
never knew anything about love, I believe, till — till 
just now.” 

“Ah! and it was I who taught you?” 

“Indirectly, yes: because I felt you — you hadn’t 
any business to be doing it.” 

“Doing what? Kissing you? Miss Carew, who 
is the man you would have liked to have kissing 
you?” 

“ Nobody: and if there were I wouldn’t tell you ” 
198 


Yarborough the Premier 

Margaret answered indignantly, but her colour rose 
high. 

Yarborough laughed ironically. “ Don’t play the 
school-girl, you can’t do it: there is too full a tide of 
life beating in your veins for that. You know well 
enough what love means.” 

“I never had a proposal before in my life. There !” 

“That does not prove that you will never have 
another. How about Mainwaring Savile?” 

If it had been to save her life, Margaret could not 
have met his eyes, nor saved herself from blushing. 
“ I think you are behaving hatefully,” she said in a 
shaken voice. 

“It can’t be Savile? You don’t mean that? 
You don’t mean that you’re in love with Mainwar- 
ing Savile?” 

“I never said so!” cried out Margaret: and then, 
womanlike, cast away her armour and buried her face 
in her hands. Yarborough shrugged his shoulders. 

“This grows more and more amusing,” he re- 
marked. “I swore to Savile this morning that you 
wei;e in love with me.” 

“He wouldn’t believe you!” came in muffled 
tones from Margaret. 

“As a matter of fact, he didn’t. You need be 
under no apprehension on that score. Well, I 
should think no man ever made more of a fool of 
himself than I have!” 

‘ ‘ Never, I should think. How dared you say such 
a thing to Mr. Savile about me ? If I ever had cared 
for you, I would have ceased to care for you after 
that!” 


199 


Yarborough the Premier 


“ If you had ever cared for me, you would not 
care what I did.” 

“You are quite wrong. I love people for what 
they are, not for what they look like. If I love 
Mainwaring Savile — and I do love him, Fll not deny 
it — it is because he is a man whom I can trust : he 
is just, noble, and pure. He is no time-serving poli- 
tician ; he does not write puffs of himself and truckle 
to newspaper-men to get them inserted.” 

“The taunt is untrue as well as unworthy. No 
newspaper, however venal and degraded, could be 
purchased by truckling: I’ve paid for all my puffs 
in honest coin of the realm.” 

“Honest?” repeated Margaret, unable to help 
laughing. “Please don’t be satirical, Mr. Yar- 
borough.” 

“So Mainwaring Savile is honest and I am not — 
is that it ? Certainly love carries an enchanter’s 
wand.” 

“At all events,” Margaret retorted swiftly, “Mr. 
Savile tells no lies.” 

“And steals no treaties — eh?” 

“What do you mean by that? Explain, please.” 

Yarborough had not meant anything except a 
bitter sneer at himself, but he was too much in- 
furiated to say so. “Ask him,” he said. “Let him 
explain, if he can.” 

“Do you mean to pretend to tell me that Mr. 
Savile has done anything underhand?” 

“Is it absolutely inconceivable that Mr. Savile 
should do anything underhand ? Happy Mr. Savile ! ’ ’ 

“You seem to forget that I’ve just told you I love 
200 


Yarborough the Premier 


him, or perhaps that word does not convey the same 
meaning to you that it does to me. If I were taken 
up for picking pockets, would you deplore my fall 
from grace?” 

“Not at all: I should merely deplore the prospect 
of your being sent to gaol.” 

“I don’t think love is love unless it’s built on 
confidence, and that’s one reason why I could never 
care for you.” 

“All right: you ask Savile about the theft of the 
German treaty, and see if he can answer you!” said 
Yarborough, now really reckless of results, and 
vividly aware that Savile had said he would never 
put forward a statement of which he had no proof. 
“You’ll not get a word out of him except a flat 
denial; that, of course, is easy to give.” 

“And you haven’t given me anything except a 
shabby insinuation,” Margaret pointed out, and so 
far lost her temper as to add with heat and acrimony, 
“And anyway I’d rather have Mr. Savile’s word 
than your oath.” 

After that a silence fell, during which Margaret 
experienced certain faint prickings of dismay. She 
was still too excited to regret her audacity, but 
it did occur to her to wonder whether she had not 
uttered a few things in her wrath which would wit- 
ness against her in the night watches, and cause her 
to repent in sackcloth and ashes. Presently Yar- 
borough turned to her with a look in his face which 
was like a hand on Margaret’s heart. 

“Why should I wait? I only trouble you. Dear, 
I could have loved you well if you would have had 
201 


Yarborough the Premier 


me: but that was not to be, and I am glad of it. 
Your husband must be no self-seeking politician, 
but an honourable man, a title which has never 
been claimed for me. I’m neither an Arthur nor a 
Lancelot, but a new variety of guinea-pig, a kind 
of jobbing premier in the bud. Think a little kindly 
of me though, Margaret: I could have been your 
true lover.” 

“You could be anything you chose,” said Mar- 
garet, caught and fascinated again by the inconsist- 
ency of his temperament. “And how I wish you 
would choose, and choose nobly!” 

“My choice was made when I was a boy. I meant 
to tell you all that, but it seems you prefer to listen 
to narratives of Mainwaring Sa vile’s school-days. 
Well — ! I must go. Good-bye.” 

Margaret insisted upon shaking hands, somewhat 
against Yarborough’s will: but he did not tell her, 
and she, quick as she was, did not guess, that he 
shrank from the touch of her cool fingers. She fol- 
lowed him to the door with her eyes, perplexed, no 
longer angry, painfully regretting a few of her own 
speeches: and perhaps it was the finest compliment 
she could have paid to Yarborough that among the 
utterances she would have liked to cancel she did 
not include her confession of love for Savile. He 
might be a scoundrel, but he was also a man to 
whom a woman could speak truth without fear of 
misinterpretation. 


XIII 


Sunset : Love like a Haven 

M argaret got up and went slowly into the 
drawing-room; it was empty, and for the first 
time in her life she was grateful to Althea for an 
exhibition of tact. It was indeed a laudable action 
that Althea, who was the very soul of curiosity, and 
must have heard of Yarborough’s presence, should 
have gone out without summoning or even waiting 
for Margaret. The room looked to the west, and 
the sun, which neared its setting, filled its brown 
shadows with a flood of golden light. Margaret sat 
down on a sofa and leaned her head on her hand, 
staring into the heart of the glory. She had been 
strongly moved, and could not settle down again 
into the old quiet channels while Yarborough’s 
looks and phrases, odd in flavour and not always 
easy to interpret, were still repeating themselves 
in her memory. She would have liked to consider 
and judge, but was borne away by the ebb and flow 
of keen preoccupation. She sat with shining eyes, 
her lips moving in imaginary question and answer: 
once or twice she laughed aloud: her calm face, 
with the little pointed chin and the hazel eyes, was 
visited by quick thoughts, as a lake by flaws of wind. 
Gradually, however, the influence of the evening 
stole upon her, an influence holy and calm, though 
203 


Yarborough the Premier 


its splendour was tarnished by London smoke; al- 
ready the scene with Yarborough began to fade 
out of her thoughts, except as a matter for regret 
and atoning kindliness: her own life, which is after 
all in a way the most precious thing in the world 
to each of us, came before her in all its unknown 
dimness. Holy, calm, and unfathomable, like the 
evening-lighted sky, she saw her destiny coming 
towards her: and like the blind man of old who sat 
by the wayside begging, she felt in herself that it was 
time for her to cast away the garment of fear, and 
go forward to meet it. Nothing could have seem- 
ed to her more natural than the announcement of 
Mainwaring Savile within an hour of Yarborough’s 
going, and she turned towards him a face which 
had something of the evening’s wonder in its clear 
expectant glance. Savile, on his part, had never 
looked more truly a son of earth and wind and sea. 
The room and all that was in it were dwarfed by 
contrast with his great height and stately frame. 
He had the tread of a Grecian wrestler, linked with 
the vivid freshness and exotic power of a man who 
has fought for his life with his bare hands in regions 
where the will of the strong is law. Margaret thought 
fit to go through a conventional greeting, but Savile, 
overlooking the chair she pushed forward, sat down 
on the window-seat and folded his arms, an attitude 
which was as habitual and characteristic in him as 
Yarborough’s familiar gesture of thrusting his hands 
into his pockets. It was characteristic of him, also, 
that in his first words he went to the root of the 
question. 


204 


Yarborough the Premier 


“I thought perhaps I should find Yarborough 
here,” he remarked without preface. 

“Did you want to meet him? He has been gone 
some time.” 

“It’s only fair to let you know I know what he 
came about.” 

Margaret was visibly taken aback. “Did he tell 
you?” she exclaimed. “Oh, I am sorry!” 

“I can hold my tongue, you know, if you want 
me to,” Savile answered in a low voice, after an 
appreciable pause. 

“Surely you would do that without my asking 
you?” 

“Surely, if you wished it; but do you?” 

“Girls don’t generally like these things talked 
about; at least, nice girls don’t — at least, I don’t 
myself,” Margaret added, after a hurried mental 
review of her acquaintance. “And he wouldn’t.” 

Savile bowed gravely. “Your will is my law. 
So what he told me is really true — correct, I 
mean?” 

“That depends very much on what he said, Mr. 
Savile.” 

“Can I be as blunt as I like? I rather bar polite 
mystification; it’s like working a helio in a mist.” 

Margaret nodded. “Say whatever you like,” she 
said. 

“Well, Yarborough said he was in love with 
you.” 

“One moment, please. Where did he tell you 
all this?” 

“In at Manton’s, in Bond Street. Nobody could 
205 


Yarborough the Premier 


have heard him. We were alone, right in the fur- 
thest room of all.” 

“Thank you, I see; go on.” 

“Well, he said he was going to marry you.” 

“Did he, indeed?” exclaimed Margaret, with some 
not unnatural resentment. Savile looked up quick- 
ly, and then away. 

“What a fool I am!” he said. “I oughtn’t to 
have put it like that. What he meant was that he 
had gathered from your manner that you liked him, 
and that he had a fair chance with you.” 

Margaret received this charitable version of Yar- 
borough’s conduct with a silent shrug, recognising 
in it less of Yarborough than of Savile, whose code 
of honour forbade him to be even just to a rival. 

“Then he said he was coming off to tell you so.” 

“I hadn’t any idea Mr. Yarborough had taken 
you for his confidant. However, as he has, I may 
as well tell you that he did.” 

“ And you accepted him ? I hope you’ll be happy,” 
Savile said with a great sigh. He went on quickly, 
before Margaret had time to break in: “But first 
you must listen to me.” 

Margaret always found it easy to remain quiet. 
“Well?” she said demurely. 

“I’ll not see you marry him in ignorance,” Savile 
said, setting his teeth. “That man does love you. 
Miss Carew.” 

“I know it.” 

“And it’s love worth having. One must give the 
— give him his due. I should think no man could 
love you better.” 


206 


Yarborough the Premier 

“I don’t know about that.” 

” He would stick to you if you were old and ugly; 
not that you ever could be ugly.” 

“I think I could, particularly if I got stout,” said 
Margaret candidly ; but Savile was not to be 
diverted. 

“He probably will end up as premier. He has 
twice my brains.” 

“Only twice?” 

Savile reddened. “Three times, if you like. 
There’s nothing he can’t do; any woman might be 
proud of him as a lover.” 

“Leave that part out,” commanded Margaret, 
“and go on to the next.” 

“I must do it, I suppose,” Savile said. He got 
up suddenly and turned his back on her, setting his 
face like a flint. “ I know you’ll despise me. — Never 
mind that, though. I’ve got to tell you a thing 
that’s going to hurt you.” 

“Go on. I don’t like suspense.” 

“He stole the German treaty from the Foreign 
Office and sent it to the papers.” 

It was so far from what Margaret had expected 
that she was for the moment bereft of speech. The 
silence seemed eternal to Savile, but he would not 
turn round; he was not going to spy on Margaret. 
At last she spoke, in a voice pregnant with meanings 
which he could not interpret for lack of a key. 

“Are you sure of this?” 

Savile ’s answer was to tell the story as briefly 
as possible. He believed in the mercifulness of a 
rapid stroke. Margaret drew a long breath when 
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Yarborough the Premier 


the recital was over: her instinct had believed him 
from the first, and reason was now convinced as 
well. 

“ Does he know you know?” she asked next. 

“Yes, but I told him I should never tell.” 

“I see now,” said Margaret quickly. “Oh, what 
a cunning trap!” 

She was doing Yarborough an injustice, for he had 
spoken quite without premeditation: but she was 
not prepared to have Savile turn towards her with 
every mark of agitation in his face, and say: 

“ I beg of you not to take any sudden step. Think 
it over, and remember that he does care for you, 
after all.” 

“ Do you want me to marry him?” Margaret asked, 
with the faintest possible emphasis on the former 
pronoun. 

“Yes, if you love him.” 

“ But if he is a thief — ” 

“A man may be any kind of skunk — scoundrel, I 
mean, and yet pull up and get straight again if he 
marries a good woman.” 

“You believe in reformed rakes, Mr. Savile?” 

“Yarborough’s not a rake. He says he never 
cared a cent for any woman but you, and I believe 
him. If you married him you could do what you 
liked with him.” 

“So he told me,” said Margaret. “But if you 
want me to marry him, why did you tell me that 
stor}?-?” 

“I’d got to let you have it clear before you. 
You’re a woman with a head, and can judge for 
208 


Yarborough the Premier 


yourself; and after all, you’ve got to live your own 
life your own way, and I can’t help you in it. No, 
I had to get things straight and let you take your own 
line : I dare say you think it was a pretty low-down 
trick, but I can’t help that: I couldn’t make out 
to hold my tongue and let you marry him blind- 
fold. The worst is, hurting you: I can’t stand 
doing that.” 

Margaret leaned back in her chair and looked up 
at him smiling. “You’re most absurdly chivalrous,” 
she said. “Why are you so chivalrous?” 

“I’m not : don’t think it,” Savile assured her 
grimly. “I’d like to kill Yarborough, sooner than 
see you marry him. I — I love you, Margaret.” 

“As if you hadn’t been telling me that for the 
last ten minutes, Main waring.” 

“Did you say you’d marry Yarborough?” 

“I don’t like courtships by proxy, sir.” 

“You gave him his answer?” 

“Do you think he is the sort of man to go away 
without it?” 

Savile was very much moved, and he showed it, 
which was not often the case. “Margaret, don’t 
play with me,” he said. “God knows I’m in no 
temper to be played with.” 

“ You will have to be in the temper to do what I 
like, not what you like,” Margaret declared, and 
then, in a sudden fit of contrition, she added quickly, 
with her eyes lifted to the paling sky : “ I do love you. 
Main waring. I will try and be a true wife to you.” 

Then she found herself lifted, held by a strength 
in comparison of which Yarborough’s strength was 
209 


14 


Yarborough the Premier 


that of a child: awe and reverence were in Sa- 
vile’s touch, as well as passion. Almost directly 
after she was released, but not till the spiritual 
stain of Yarborough’s kiss had been atoned for by 
the touch of Savile’s lips consummating a mystical 
union. This was the inception of a true marriage- 
bond, or so Margaret felt it: and Savile seemingly 
felt the same, though he said only : 

“I’m not fit for this.” 

Instinct told Margaret that a return to the com- 
monplace was desirable, and she effected it, though 
not without an inward rebellion. “That just shows 
you are,” she said with a laugh. “If you said you 
were, I should know you couldn’t be. Kneel down : 
you’re tyrannically tall, and I can’t reach you.” 

Savile knelt obediently, and Margaret put her 
hands on his shoulders, and held him away from 
her. To Yarborough the arch, laughing, beautiful 
face would have been an irresistible temptation ; but 
Savile’s less sensuous temperament forbade him 
even to ask for what Margaret was not perfectly 
ready to give. He was not one to brush the bloom 
from the flower of a woman’s devotion by rough or 
eager handling, and Margaret, who was at first in- 
clined to be shy and to recede from the candour of 
her avowal, soon found herself able to lean upon his 
chivalry while giving him spontaneously all that 
could not have been wrested from her by demands. 

“I’ll take you away,” he said. “We’ll get away 
out of the civilised crowd into the old Homeric 
places, where one smells the sea and has the 
wind in one’s teeth. I’d like to see you wet with 
210 


Yarborough the Premier 


spray from head to foot, with your hair whipping 
out behind you in wet black streamers like sea- 
weed, and you leaning to the spring of the deck 
under the thud of the racing seas in half a gale from 
the North Atlantic.” 

“I should be down in the cabin, feeling very un- 
well, I expect,” Margaret said, ruefully shaking her 
head. “I’ve never been on the sea.” 

“ Never — been — on the sea! Then the sooner you 
come the better. I’ve got a sailing-yacht of my 
own, a regular clipper, an ocean-goer. I can sail a 
yacht with any man afloat,” Savile declared. “I 
think I’ll chuck politics and carry you off, that is 
if you’d like to come. Would you?” 

“Would I, now? I think I might, to please you. 
But only for a holiday, you know. I want you to 
work very hard and be a great man.” 

“ Ambitious, are you? I’m not. There are times 
when I seem to lose touch with the world and all the 
men in it. They melt into a kind of dream, and 
then I have to get away and be alone with the sea. 
Can you understand? I know so little of you, I 
don’t even know what you like ; but you’ll have to 
teach me that.” 

“We’ve lots and lots of time before us, but I do 
want you to work hard. They say you are a crank. 
Is that true?” 

Savile looked doubtful. “I expect what they 
mean is that I can’t stand political jobbery. You 
wouldn’t want me to?” 

“No, I love you for being honest. You’re so 
different from — some people.” 


21 I 


Yarborough the Premier 


“He’s an ingenious rascal,’’ Savile said, answer- 
ing her thought rather than her words. “Poor 
chap!’’ 

Margaret’s face hardened. “I can’t pity him,” 
she said abruptly. 

“About that treaty business? I felt like that 
myself at first, but afterwards I came round a bit. 
People think an awful lot of him, you know. Look 
at Carteret and Mallinson! Carteret may be a bit 
soft, but he’s always kept very straight, and he 
simply swears by Yarborough; and Mallinson, who’s 
one of the most level-headed men in town, and an 
awfully nice chap into the bargain, described him to 
Hayes as a disinterested genius.” 

“I do like to hear you defending him,” observed 
Margaret in a low voice; and, thus encouraged, Sa- 
vile proceeded: 

“I expect it was the frightful suddenness of the 
temptation that made him buckle up; he hadn’t 
time to get himself in hand. Things like that get 
done in a kind of thunder-clap. If I were to mur- 
der a man in a fit of temper, I wouldn’t mind being 
hanged for it, but I’d not expect you to pick up 
your skirts and pass by on the other side.” 

“I would love you just the same whatever you 
did,” said Margaret with a fulness and simplicity 
which took away her own breath as well as Sa vile’s. 
“But, you know, I don’t think any woman would 
mind a murder as much as a theft. Besides, he 
might have confessed to it afterwards and so saved 
his brother. O Mainwaring, I am sorry for him, 
but I can’t help abhorring him for what he’s done. 


2 12 


Yarborough the Premier 


And the more I care for you, the more thankful I 
am that I never did care for him.” 

“I don’t see that.” 

“Oh, I do. You don’t know how wavering and 
shallow and uncertain I was, and how I couldn’t tell 
who I cared for, or even whether I was really ca- 
pable of caring for any one at all. I thought I was 
one of those contemptible women who are always 
receiving love and giving affection, — and — I must 
tell you the truth — I was fascinated by the way 
he made love to me, and by the clever way he 
dazzled my eyes. But I suppose a kind of in- 
herited instinct kept me straight, or perhaps it 
was — it was you in me, deep down, before I knew 
it with my mind.” She laughed and blushed. 
“Anyhow, I never did give myself away to him 
at all, except, in a quite different way, this after- 
noon, and that I’m glad of, now; I hope I did 
hurt him.” 

“Vindictive?” 

“Absolutely vindictive, and I’ll tell you why if 
you like.” 

“Ha! so there’s a reason, is there?” Savile asked. 
He got up languidly and came and leaned over the 
back of Margaret’s chair, so that she could not watch 
his face; otherwise probably the story would not 
have been told. Margaret spoke deliberately, quite 
aware that her words carried danger to Yarborough, 
but convinced that she was only meting out to each 
the due reward of his own conduct; precisely how 
her utterance would act on Savile she could not even 
guess. 


213 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Mainwaring, did any one ever put the theft of 
that treaty down to you, yourself?” 

“My dear girl, no! Considering that it ruined 
me and all the rest of us.” 

“People will say anything if it’s only malicious 
enough. Are you sure?” 

“Well, I think I may say I’m perfectly positive. 
Estcourt would have put me up to it if they had; 
he’s a thorough old gossip, is Tony — knows all the 
scandal. Why?” 

“Because Mr. Yarborough told me you stole it. 
He said, if I asked you, you wouldn’t have a word 
to say for yourself; you might deny it, but you 
couldn’t disprove.” 

There was so long a silence after the truth was 
out that Margaret turned in her chair and looked up. 
Savile was standing up, his arms folded; all expres- 
sion seemed to be driven from his face, and his gray 
eyes, darkened by a singular dilation of the pupil, 
were fixed absently on some vision invisible in the 
fading daylight. Margaret jumped up and put her 
hand on his arm. 

“Oh, what are you going to do?” she asked. 

Savile started under her touch, came back to life, 
and looked down at her, smiling. “Do? Nothing, 
dear girl — or at any rate nothing that need bother 
you. I sha’n’t get hurt.” 

“I’m not afraid for you. What are you going 
to do to Mr. Yarborough?” 

“ I want to talk things over with him, that’s all.” 

“Mainwaring, you mustn’t! You’ll hurt him.” 

“Not unless he gets in my way,” Savile answered. 

214 


Yarborough the Premier 


He moved towards the door: Margaret sprang to 
intercept him, and put her back against it. 

“No, Mainwaring, you mustn’t!” she said breath- 
lessly. “You’d make me feel so mean for having 
told you. Besides, I am so sorry for him.” 

“I believe you’re half in love with him, after all.” 

“Yes, I am, but I love you better,” Margaret 
averred boldly. “For my sake, forgive him!” 

“No, you don’t understand; forgiveness wouldn’t 
meet the case.” 

“At least don’t go to him while you’re mad with 
passion!” 

Without passion and without relenting, Savile 
quietly passed his arm about her waist and put her 
aside. “No, you don’t understand,” he said. 
“Women never do. Yarborough hasn’t played me 
fair, and I’ve got to square accounts with him: the 
reckoning has run on too long already. I’ll not get 
hurt, and I’ll not hurt him more than I can help; 
but we’ve got to fight it out. Don’t you try to 
meddle.” 

Wrath, persuasion, entreaty rose to Margaret’s 
lips, and died there, so plain was it that Savile would 
brook no further interference. No more was said on 
either side. He kissed her good-bye and went out ; 
and Margaret, left alone to play the inevitable wom- 
an’s part of waiting, went up to her room to dress for 
dinner and pray for her lover’s salvation. 


XIV 


Nightfall: Hast Thou Found Me, O Mine 
Enemy ? 

T he sun had set, the moon had risen: one by 
one came the stars, pricking out points of fire 
amid the sky’s transparent amethyst. An evening 
chilliness refreshed the parched air, bringing all Lon- 
don, except the tiny minority which makes its laws 
and sets its fashions, forth into the streets. Savile, 
driving rapidly through the teeming squares, first to 
his own rooms, and thence to Anthony Estcourt’s 
lodgings near Lincoln’s Inn, cursed the city and all 
its inhabitants, for getting in his way. 

The barrister was at home, lying back in a lounge- 
chair with a cigar and a novel of Flaubert’s, idle 
as usual. At Savile’s entrance he looked up and 
laid his book aside. 

“Incarnate energy, come and have a — Hullo! 
what’s up?” 

“I want you to come on a little pasear with me: 
will you?” 

“Where tof” asked Estcourt. 

“You shall see when we get there.” 

“Savile, what’s up?” 

“Will you come, yes or no?” 

“What shall you do if I don’t?” 

216 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Go alone,” answered Savile without hesitation. 
Estcourt got up, peering narrowly into the colourless 
strong face. 

“Won’t you wait a bit?” he urged. “You don’t 
know what you look like, old man. You look like 
Ajax going to be avenged of his enemies.” 

“Dare say: only if Ajax felt half as keen as I do 
I’m sorry for his enemies. Get your hat, Tony, and 
look sharp: I’m not waiting.” 

Estcourt, lacking courage to resist, gathered up 
his hat and stick, and threw on a light overcoat to 
cover his evening dress. “I don’t possess a re- 
volver,” he said, forlornly trying to laugh off the 
dread which Savile inspired in him, “but I’ve got 
an old blunderbuss: shall I bring it along?” 

Savile laughed rather grimly, as if he enjoyed the 
spectacle of Estcourt’s nervousness. “I’m armed 
for both,” he said, showing the muzzles of a pair of 
revolvers in the pocket of his coat. 

Estcourt recoiled in horror. “Look here,” he 
said, “is this a duel or a murder?” 

“Say an execution: I’m taking you as a witness.” 

“Savile, what is up? Who’ve you had the row 
with?” 

“See by -and -by,” Savile assured him grimly. 
“Come along.” 

Estcourt followed him. Savile ’s hansom was wait- 
ing at the door. The two men got into it, and Savile 
gave the direction : “ Drive to the National Gallery.” 

“My good chap, what’s the use of taking me to 
look at pictures?” Estcourt protested. “I don’t 
know a Greuze from a Whistler!” 

217 


Yarborough the Premier 

Savile turned on him with a movement full of 
impatience, and so violent that Est court shrank 
as from a blow: but he did not speak, and neither 
did Estcourt speak any more after that. Ere long, 
they reached Trafalgar Square, a dim realm blurred 
with shadows, and spotted with flitting lamps: the 
moon looked down upon it like a white ghost 
through the illuminated tracery of a gigantic sky- 
sign, and the ugly building which was their goal, 
lit by conflicting half-lights, loomed up before them 
in a vaguely grandiose design of steps and pillars 
and massed architectural darkness. At the corner 
of St. Martin’s Lane they got out, and, still in silence, 
Savile led the way along the crowded pavement, 
shouldering the lesser breed of the city to right and 
left, as a ship’s hull severs the waves. Bicyclists slid 
by on noiseless wheels, like goblin shadow-shapes 
with eyes of fire: empty drays roared along the 
narrow road-way: along the western frontage stripes 
of cold moonlight alternated with rectangles of dark- 
ness and rows of blazing gas, and everywhere the 
place was alive with groups which dissolved and 
reproduced themselves like a crowd on the stage, 
with the eternal unchangeable changefulness of a 
London street at night. When they came to the 
third or fourth street that turned off to the right, 
Savile halted at the corner, and looked up and down 
as if to be sure of his direction. Narrow, dark, and ill- 
favoured, it wound away between the towering gloom 
of factory walls: tier upon tier of windows glowed, 
high above their heads, like windows in the sky. 
The ponderous buildings shook and throbbed and 
218 


Yarborough the Premier 


roared with the thunder of machinery, like prisoned 
giants labouring for their puny masters. The road 
was up hard-by where Savile stood, and a trench 
was dug beside the pavement, and surrounded by 
a light barricade studded with red lamps: beside 
the iron shanty where the workmen took their meals 
stood a tall iron tripod, holding a brazier of glowing 
charcoal. The night wind fanned the embers, and 
cast a crimson glow over Savile ’s face: in the hell- 
ish light Est court hardly knew him, so white and 
strange were the immobile features, so fixed in dread 
resolve, inured to the prospect of death. Estcourt 
was completely startled, and hung back: but Savile, 
turning and saying, “Come,” he yielded to the con- 
straint of Savile ’s power and went with him. 

They turned at last into the narrow, broken, 
sloping cul-de-sac of Bexton Street, buttressed by 
lofty walls, where the outer moonlight and the 
smoky lamps within fought a kind of sword-play 
in snow and lurid gold. Here the echoes and 
reverberations and pulsations of the great machines 
raged, concentrated: Savile’s trained ear could 
faintly distinguish between the sliding clank of 
levers, the thud of hammers, and the intricate hum 
of wheels. Yarborough’s dumb little house con- 
fronted them, holding its secrets, as of old: no chink 
or cranny of light escaped. Amid that raging 
wilderness of noise its very silence was eloquent. 

Savile stood on the pavement, his experienced 
glance remarking every feature of its pseudo-rustic 
front, the lightning-rod planted against the angle 
of the wall, the rickety balcony running along undei 
219 


Yarborough the Premier 


the French windows of the first floor fifteen feet 
from the ground. He laid his hands to the rod: it 
was strong, and they were alone in the alley. Silently 
he went up it hand over hand with the ease of a 
sailor, and clambered upon the balcony. Estcourt 
followed, with more difficulty, and with an uneasy 
feeling that there might be a constable near: but 
the police rarely troubled Bexton Street by night. 
Savile, who was not nervous, walked the length 
of the balcony, scanning each window in turn. At 
the fourth, or furthest, aperture he paused, and 
beckoned to Estcourt to come nearer. 

“What is it?” Estcourt asked in a whisper. “Oh! 
by Jove!” 

Rendered sound - proof and impregnable by a 
double thickness of plate-glass, backed by massive 
oaken shutters, the building was nevertheless not 
light-proof; for, close to the upper hinge, the oak ! 
was pierced with a couple of holes about an inch in i 
diameter, left probably by the displacement of a : 
bar or chain. Looking through the lower of these, J 
while Savile looked through the other, Estcourt 
found that it commanded a partial view of a big ' 
bare room, brilliantly lit up with electric light. In the 
centre of his circular field of vision Yarborough sat, | 
working, before a table laden with books and papers. 
Alone in his kingdom of labour, alone still more in ; 
the intense abstraction of thought, he seemed re- i 
moved by worlds and ages from the dilettante who i 
watched him, or from the unripe boy who had sat 
in the same chair a few months ago. Taken un- i 
aware, he revealed, not the charlatan, but the j 
220 ! 


Yarborough the Premier 


statesman: and he had this profound advantage 
over his spies, that, while they were thinking chiefly 
of themselves, he was fixed exclusively upon his 
work. At a loss for a word, he threw back his head 
and looked forth before him: looked directly into 
the eyes of Estcourt, who started back with a 
movement of alarm. Savile, less susceptible, did 
not budge: he knew that Yarborough could not see 
him, and that was all he cared about. 

“What do you want to do now?” Estcourt 
whispered. “This sort of thing is so confoundedly 
ungentlemanly. Oh, don’t smile like that, you give 
me the blues!” 

“Look, look,” said Savile in his ordinary tone. 
“He can’t hear us. He had the room built to re- 
hearse his speeches in. You might fire a rifle in that 
room and hardly be heard from the street. He’s clean 
off his guard, as if it were the Day of Judgment.” 

Estcourt obeyed, completely fascinated, his weak- 
er nature dominated by Savile ’s stronger will. To- 
gether they watched and waited, while the slow 
minutes of the night went by. 

Yarborough laid his pen aside, and his lips moved, 
as if in recitation. Presently he sprang up and 
began to pace the room with rapid, nervous steps, 
passing from their ken and reappearing. His lips 
moved incessantly : he gesticulated occasionally with 
his hands, but only very slightly: swift, flexible, 
significant gestures. They could not hear one 
syllable of what he said, yet he was undoubtedly 
speaking aloud : from his face, and the movements of 
his lips, one might gather that sometimes his voice 
221 


Yarborough the Premier 


rose to a cry. It was an oration in dumb show. 
The spectators of this unstudied human drama 
seemed to be violating secrets of which they could 
not distinguish one word. The cold of the night, 
and a sense of strangeness in the whole scene, so 
oppressed Estcourt that he shivered suddenly and 
violently from head to foot. Gradually Yarborough 
became more composed: he stood still, folded his 
arms, and uttered his last inaudible words. He 
bent his head and stood for a moment quiet ; then 
began to gather up his papers. 

“He is going,” said Estcourt, with a sigh of relief. 

“Not yet , ’ ’ Sa vile answered inexorable . “Watch . ” 

Yarborough gathered up a sheaf of papers and 
laid them neatly together: next he consulted his 
watch, an old silver timepiece, worthless except 
for its original purpose. Lastly, he came and stood 
beside the empty hearth, so close to his spies that 
they could almost have laid hands on him, had no 
barrier intervened. The only ornament on the 
stucco mantelshelf consisted of a cabinet photograph 
in a silver frame, which stood with its back obliquely 
turned to the window, invisible to Savile; but he 
could read plainly enough the passion of desire and 
suffering which set its ravaging mark on Yar- 
borough’s features, as he stood, hands in pockets, 
cynically regarding the pictured face. Estcourt 
had had enough : he stepped back from the window. 

“Savile, I won’t stand this,” he said. 

“No more will I, old boy,” Savile answered, with 
a light merry note in his voice. “Come round here, 
Tony.” Estcourt was again constrained to follow 
222 


Yarborough the Premier 


him, not without curiosity. Of the four windows 
that opened on the balcony, three were of the French 
shape, and very broad: the central one was small 
and dark, and looked as if it might open on a 
passage. Savile struck the glass with his clenched 
fist, and shivered it: he put his hand in and shook 
the shutters. They were fastened, but insecurely. 
He gripped them in his two hands and brought 
his weight to bear on them. They tore and split, 
and fell apart. Through the wrecked wood- work 
Savile clambered in, signing to Estcourt to follow 
him. 

They found themselves in a narrow passage, 
lighted only by a single tongue of gas turned very 
low. At one end, a flight of stairs ran down to the 
little hall and up to the attics above: two doors 
opened to their left, one on the right. Savile point- 
ed to the latter. “Yarborough’s door,” he said. 
“Padded and built double, like the shutters. I’m 
his landlord: but when I gave him leave to make 
those alterations, I didn’t know how convenient 
they’d turn out.” 

“I wish to Heaven you’d come away!” said 
Estcourt miserably. 

“All in good time, when I’ve paid my debt of 
honour,” Savile retorted. “Come on, Tony: don’t 
funk.” 

He tried the handle of Yarborough’s door: it was 
not locked. He went in noiselessly, followed by 
Estcourt: who felt himself, from that moment, a 
powerless spectator of a singularly grim play. Yar- 
borough was still gazing at Margaret’s photograph, 
223 


Yarborough the Premier 


which he had taken up in his hand. He did not 
hear Savile enter. He received no warning that he 
was not alone till Savile, coming up quietly behind 
him, suddenly dropped a hand on his shoulder. 

“Drop that,” he said. 

Yarborough stood motionless as death for a few 
seconds, no longer: his first conscious act was to 
slip Margaret’s portrait into his bosom. “Hast 
thou found me, O mine enemy?” he said. He had 
not once turned or looked at Savile. 

“That photograph is mine, hand it over.” 

“Not I.” 

“Good: then I shall have to take it by force, and 
I’m precisely in the mood for doing so.” 

Yarborough turned at that, and faced his enemy. 
Savile stood over him, faintly smiling, languid with 
excess of strength: and deadly power and deadly 
temper were so allied in his look that Yarborough 
saw that he might as well have been in the hands 
of an actual madman. “Savile, do you know 
you’re crazy?” he said. “Let me recommend 
you to go home and take a dose of bromide of 
potassium.” 

‘ ‘ Thanks : the photograph ?” 

“The photograph is mine.” 

“Yes, by theft,” said Savile, with an indolent 
laugh. He transferred his grip in a moment from 
Yarborough’s shoulder to his waist, lifted him 
from his feet and held him crushed against his 
side, while with his free hand he wrenched the 
portrait from its resting-place: then he let Yar- 
borough go. 


224 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Next time,” he remarked, “perhaps you’ll make 
less fuss.” 

Yarborough leaned against the table, whiter than 
Savile: his shirt was torn, and he made a pretence 
of arranging it, to get his breath and command his 
temper. As he did so, his glance fell for the first 
time on Estcourt, standing with his back against the 
closed door. 

“Ah,” he said coolly, “two to one? No wonder 
you are valorous, gentlemen.” 

“Oh, Tony’s only come to see fair play: I 
shouldn’t need his help to break your backbone 
between my hands, don’t you know.’’ 

“As a matter of curiosity, may I ask how you 
got in?” 

“By the passage-window. Estcourt, there, had 
scruples: he felt burglarious. But I reckon it was 
diamond cut diamond, eh?’’ 

“And what did you come for, apart from murder 
and sudden death?” 

“Imprimis, to receive your congratulations: I’m 
going to be married.” 

The colour came into Yarborough’s cheeks as he 
remembered how he had been spied on, and saw by 
Savile’s taunting glance that he was meant to re- 
member: he bowed silently. 

“Made a fool of yourself, didn’t you? What was 
that you said this morning in Manton’s about spir- 
itual affinity, or precontract — I forget the precise 
term?” 

Yarborough controlled himself to say steadily, 
“You are generous.” 


15 


22 $ 


Yarborough the Premier 


“My generosity has limits, which you’ve passed. 
You hound! how dared you tell her that lie about 
me?’’ 

The whirlwind of Savile’s passion, which had been 
steadily rising ever since his parting with Margaret, 
broke loose in those words, and seemed to envelop 
Yarborough in darkness and points of fire. But 
Yarborough was no weakling: his were the kin- 
dred qualities of fortitude and racial pride which, 
when they act on a nervous temperament, produce 
the most durable kind of courage. He walked 
across to the table and sat down on the edge of it, 
swinging one foot and humming a tune between his 
set lips: his look for Savile was wary and cool, 
though Estcourt was wiping the sweat from his fore- 
head with his handkerchief. 

“Did you come here to inform me of the death 
of Queen Anne?’’ he asked, “or merely to be im- 
pertinent?’’ 

“No: I came to get you to sign a confession.’’ 

“By force, if need be?’’ 

“By force, if need be.’’ 

“Have you got the interesting document ready 
drawn up?’’ 

Savile drew a folded sheet of thick white note- 
paper from his pocket. “ It’s all in order,” he said, 
“and Estcourt and I’ll be witnesses. Come, pull 
yourself together, Tony: never seen a worm on a 
line before?” 

And he began to read it aloud, while Estcourt 
leaned inert against the door, and Yarborough swung 
his foot and hummed the “ Marseillaise.” 

226 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Wednesday, August 5, 1905. 

“I confess: 

“ (i.) That oh May i6th last I stole from the safe at Chans- 
ton a draft of the proposed treaty between England and 
Germany drawn up by the Prime Minister and Minister for 
Foreign Affairs and given by the Under- Secretary of State 
for Foreign Affairs to my brother Sir Edmund Yarborough 
and sold it to the papers : 

“(ii.) That I had no instigators or accomplices either be- 
fore or after the fact: 

“(iii.) That the statement made by me contrary to that 
effect was a wilful lie. 

“(Signed) 

“ Witnesses: 

“There! that’s not legal phraseology, but it’s 
good enough for me, I reckon,’’ Savile ended, laying 
down the curious document on Yarborough’s writ- 
ing-pad. “Have the goodness to put your name 
to that, will you?’’ 

“Do you really imagine I shall sign it?’’ 

“I do.’’ 

“Ah! and what’s your line of argument?’’ 

“These,’’ Savile answered, taking the revolvers 
from his pocket and laying them on the mantel- 
shelf. Estcourt cried out, and started forward : but 
Savile turned upon him with lifted hand. “Not 
another step,’’ he said. “Get back against the door. 
You fool! I could kill you, couldn’t I? And I will 
too, if you don’t keep out of my way.’’ 

“ You’re going to shoot me?’’ said Yarborough. ^ 

“ No : you shall sign.’’ 

“Clever of you, very, if you can make me do it.” 

“I’ll make you do it, never fear.” 

227 


Yarborough the Premier 

“I would rather die twice over than sign that 
screed of yours.” 

“Would you rather die twelve times over?” 

Yarborough made no reply, and Savile saw a cu- 
rious flicker of sensation pass over his face, for 
which, if it proceeded from cowardice, Savile was 
hardly disposed to blame him. He was alone: he 
was close to death, and death in a peculiarly enig- 
matic and terrible form, attended by every circum- 
stance that could imbitter and degrade : and he was 
helpless, for not only was Savile armed, but he had 
the awful advantage of bodily strength, and could 
have stifled his slighter antagonist like an infant, 
or thrashed him like a dog, his cries unheard, his 
struggles unavailing. Savile took off his overcoat 
and threw it across a chair : he stood by the man- 
telshelf, very tall and strong in his rough, gray, 
belted Norfolk-jacket and knickerbockers. 

“Oblige me by going and standing over against 
the wall yonder, will you? If you don’t, I shall 
have to carry you, and tie you up somehow with 
cords.” 

Yarborough got off the table and walked past 
Estcourt to the end of the room: there he placed 
himself with his back to the wall, and faced Savile. 

“This is gloriously dramatic,” he remarked. 
“You should turn playwright and send it to the 
Adelphi.” 

“Am I to fire?” 

“Allons, beau Seigneur! fire away!” 

“I know you’re scared. I saw you tremble.” 

“You misinterpreted me. I am inexpressibly 
228 


Yarborough the Premier 

glad to die; almost as much in love with death as I 
was with Margaret.” 

Savile lifted his hand: the light flashed on the 
nipple of the revolver. “Arms out, please,” he said. 
“I want you crucified.” 

Yarborough extended his arms and stood cross- 
wise against the wall. Savile took very deliberate 
aim, finding his hand unexpectedly unsteady. 
There was a flash, a slight report, and a curl of 
smoke. Estcourt uttered a sort of stifled moan. 

“Missed,” said Yarborough tranquilly. 

“ Hit,” Savile responded with equal calm. “ I 
have nicked your hair, which was what I aimed at. 
Where shall I hit you next?” 

“ Wherever you like: but when did you go crazy?” 

Savile fired again: the bullet passed through Yar- 
borough’s coat. 

“Will you sign?” 

“Lunatic! I’ll see you in Hades first.” 

Again the revolver cracked : this time it grazed 
Yarborough’s outstretched hand, and a few drops 
of blood trickled down and stained the plaster of the 
wall. 

Estcourt came a step forward : he tried to speak, 
but his voice died away into an inarticulate gasp. 
At last he got out a word. “Savile!” 

“Well?” 

“Let him go! Good God, it’s too horrible! Do 
let him go!” 

“What, now?” said Savile. “I didn’t know you 
were afraid of blood, Tony : he’s more of a man than 
you are.” 


229 


Yarborough the Premier 

And he fired again : and this time a red stain oozed 
from under Yarborough’s other hand. 

‘ ‘ Sorry, ’ ’ said Savile apologetically. ‘ ‘ That really 
was a miss, for I didn’t mean to hit.” 

Estcourt dropped on his knees and began to pray 
aloud. Yarborough shrugged his shoulders : the 
situation continued to strike him as rather absurd. 

“Go on, Savile,” he said. “My arms are getting 
stiff: finish your job.” 

Savile fired rapidly: neither flash nor detonation 
followed. Astonished, he made a hurried examina- 
tion of the revolver, which proved to be empty. 

” If the other should be empty too !” he ex- 
claimed. “By Jove! what a fool I am! I believe 
these were what I was practising with yesterday. 
I looked to them in a hurry to-night, and never saw 
they were only partly loaded.” 

Yarborough stood motionless, like one indeed cru- 
cified: Estcourt raised his head and desisted from 
prayer. At last Savile looked up from the second 
revolver. 

“Two shots more,” he said contentedly. “That 
will settle your business, I take it. Once more, will 
you sign that paper? I wish you would, as a per- 
sonal favour.” 

“I can’t,” said Yarborough. 

“You won’t? Then — ” 

The bullet scored a tiny incision in the side of 
Yarborough’s bare throat: this pin - prick of a 
wound, which might so easily have been fatal, proved 
how mad Savile was in his recklessness. Suddenly 
Estcourt, who had gone back to his old post by the 
230 


Yarborough the Premier 

door, gave a slight start and seemed to listen in- 
tently. 

“Savile,” he cried out, “Savile, are you going to 
shoot him?” 

“I shall have to put the next between his eyes. 
Why, Tony?” 

“Don’t make me stand by and look on — don’t! 
I — I simply can’t stand it.” 

Savile looked at him wonderingly. “Can’t stand 
it?” he repeated: “but what do you want to do?” 

“Let me get out of the room, that’s all. I swear 
to you on my honour I won’t leave the house. — I — 
I can’t stand seeing it done.” 

“You’ll call somebody in,” Savile. said doubtfully. 

“No, on my honour, no! I’ll go down and wait 
in the hall till — till it’s over. Oh, I never saw any- 
thing so frightful in my life! Let me go.” 

Savile shrugged his shoulders. “Go, if you like,” 
he said. He turned again to Yarborough, throwing 
Estcourt the key of the door : while Estcourt un- 
locked it and fled, Savile stood carefully examining 
his revolver. Whatever he had meant to do in the 
first instance, he was now past all power of rational 
reasoning or framing his plans anew : he could go 
neither backward nor forward, except along the line 
he had marked out for himself previously. He 
walked down the room to Yarborough: he lifted the 
revolver and held it between his eyes, its barrel 
touching his forehead. “Look here,” he said, “am I 
to fire? Do you want to die, and face God? Are 
you so keen to go out into the dark ? Odd how some 
men dislike telling the truth! Mind, I am going to 
231 


Yarborough the Premier 


kill you: and no man’s clever enough to knowhow 
much agony can be compressed into a second, when 
it’s the second of death. Upon my soul, I could 
pity you for your pluck if you weren’t such a devil 
of a scoundrel. . . . Well, I’m to fire, then. Good- 
bye. . . 

His finger was on the trigger, when there came 
into Yarborough’s eyes, which were fixed on the 
door, a look so singular, so piercing, so coercent (as 
if he saw a vision) that involuntarily Savile too 
glanced back over his shoulders. There in the door- 
way stood Estcourt and Carteret. In the twinkling 
of an eye Savile fired; but Yarborough had dropped 
on his knees as Savile turned his head, and the shot 
— the last shot, — buried itself in the wall. Savile ’s 
face grew livid: he stooped, he lifted Yarborough 
from his knees to his feet ; he raised him like a child 
high above his head, and dashed him with all his 
strength sideways and downwards through the air. 
Yarborough fell against the open door some yards 
away, and lay without stirring. Savile would have 
sprung at him again, but in one breath Carteret and 
Estcourt flung themselves upon him. They caught 
him at an advantage, and Carteret, who was as agile 
as a cat, tripped him up; he fell backward with his 
whole weight to the floor. The shock of such a fall 
stunned him. 

“Handkerchief,” said Carteret. 

He took his own handkerchief and Estcourt ’s, and 
supplementing them with his braces, he contrived 
to tie Savile hand and foot. Then he got up and 
ran to Yarborough’s side. 

232 


Yarborough the Premier 


Thee hurt ? Christian, art hurt ?” he stammered, 
his voice sharp to impatience. 

Yarborough sat up and looked at him : he shook 
his head. After a minute speech came back. 

“Hurt? No. But — giddy.” 

“Is he cracked?” Carteret asked, denoting Savile 
by a nod. 

“With — temper.” 

“You are hurt, aren’t you, Christian?” 

“No. Give me your arm.” 

Carteret complied, and Yarborough, subduing a 
gasp of pain, got to his feet. “I fell against the 
door,” he said. “It’s knocked the wind out of me. 
He’s — had twelve shots at me, Carteret.” 

“Christian, art thee sure thee aren’t hurt?” 

“Quite : I thought I might have broken a rib or 
two, but I haven’t.” He ran his hands over him- 
self delicately, but with another little smothered 
sigh of pain. “No, there’s nothing broken. Only 
bruises. What a madman!” 

Savile was sitting up: he looked still completely 
dazed and stupefied. “I — I think I’ve been 
mad,” he said. “I knew I should murder some- 
body.” 

“Well, you haven’t,” Yarborough said, with a 
cynical laugh which made him wince with pain. 
“You’d better go home now, hadn’t you? Estcourt, 
take him home.” 

“I expect you think I’m an awful coward, don’t 
you?” Estcourt said to Yarborough, while Carteret 
loosened the bandages. 

“Not I! You and I together would have been 

233 


Yarborough the Premier 


no match for him, even unarmed. Carteret would 
have been equally useless if he’d had another shot 
in the locker.” 

“Thanks: but I shall never forgive myself.” 

Of the four actors in the scene, Estcourt, white- 
lipped and shaking, was the most completely un- 
nerved. Savile looked white and dazed, but steady. 
Carteret’s emotion only made him irritable. Yar- 
borough was sick with pain, but perfectly cool; 
and both he and Carteret looked, moved, and spoke 
like their ordinary selves. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Yarborough mockingly, 
as Savile and Estcourt were going out together, ‘ ‘ I 
observe with regret that you haven’t the grace to 
make me an apology.” 

Savile turned on the threshold and looked back 
at him : a long, critical look. 

“My code of morality may be uncivilised,” he 
said passionlessly. “Dare say it is: it acquits me 
on that scdre. I asked you to own up that you’d 
lied, and so you had: and Estcourt and Carteret 
know it as well as you do. I’ll apologise to God, 
Christian Yarborough, but not to you.” 

There was a long silence between Carteret and 
Yarborough when the echo of Savile ’s steps had 
died away. At length Yarborough took up the 
written form of confession, which Savile had left 
lying on the table, and gave it to Carteret, with a 
most bitter smile. 

“Am not I a fool, Cecil?” he said. “I consented 
to be shot, rather than sign that piece of unpalatable 
truth.” 


234 


Yarborough the Premier 


Carteret adjusted his spectacles and read the 
paper: then he took them off and glanced very 
keenly at Yarborough. “Truth?” he said in an odd 
tone. “What is truth?” 

“Don’t be enigmatic,” said Yarborough. “Did 
you come for anything special?” 

“Only to look thee up.” 

“Estcourt heard your knock, I suppose, and ran 
down to let you in?” 

“Dragged me in by the scruff of my neck, thee 
means; a nice young man, that!” 

“He can’t stand against a man of Savile’s calibre, 
that’s all: and I don’t wonder. Carteret!” 

“My lad?” 

“I’m deadly, deadly tired.” 

Carteret drew Yarborough’s hand through his 
arm with a movement of womanly tenderness. 
“There, there!” he said, softly stroking Yarborough’s 
fingers, “I’m not going to let thee do any more 
work to-night. Come away home with me, lad, 
out of this ill-omened little house: bed’s the best 
place for thee. I’m certain.” 


XV 


Midnight: Wine of Triumph 

I T was now close on eleven o’clock : the city was 
already deserted, and lay bare to the stars, float- 
ing like isles of light upon a solemn ocean of amethyst. 
The damp air of night, chill with remembered rain, 
breathed fresh upon Yarborough’s senses as he was 
driven along by Carteret’s side. When they reached 
Pierpont Street, the house was shut up and dark, 
for the master was not expected to return. Yar- 
borough was sternly bidden remain in the cab, while 
Carteret went and hammered at the door. It was 
opened to them after some delay by Yarborough’s 
valet in his shirt and trousers. 

“I beg pardon for keeping you waiting, Mr. 
Carteret, sir,” he stammered: then, catching sight 
of Yarborough, he flew down the steps to offer his 
arm. “Why, you’ve never and been and got hurt, 
my lord?” Carteret heard him ejaculate. 

“There, now, drop that absurd nonsense and 
help me up to my room,” Yarborough answered: 
and Momington, with evident pride, gave his arm 
to his master for the ascent of the stair, while 
Carteret followed with the queerest mixed feelings 
of surprise and touched affection. Yarborough’s 
room was an ascetic-looking chamber, and it was 
236 


Yarborough the Premier 


pleasant to Carteret to observe with what assiduous 
care Mornington fetched cushions and piled them 
on the sofa, and kindled a fire in the empty grate. 

“A cup of coffee for Mr. Carteret and a thimble- 
ful of cognac for me, and then you can be off to 
bed, Mornington; I shall not want you any more 
to-night.” 

Mornington went out with a disappointed air, and 
Carteret, warming his little patent-leather boots at 
the fire, laughed softly. 

“No man is a hero — ” he suggested, with a 
quizzical side-glance. “How does thee work it, 
pray, my lord?” 

“I should amend the proverb and say, ‘No hero 
is a hero,’” Yarborough answered wearily, turning 
amid his cushions to find an easier posture. “ I think 
I shall have to get rid of him, though: he bores me.” 

Carteret was moved to smile at this transparent 
bit of cynicism, but he restrained himself and said 
only, “My lad, you’re very tired.” 

“I’m tired, and I’m sick and sad as well. O 
Carteret! what in all the world is there so bitter as 
Dead Sea fruit?” 

“What’s Dead Sea fruit? I’m all in the dark, 
you know.” 

“I’ve no heart for the morrow, that’s what’s 
wrong with me,” said Yarborough. He turned 
again, so that his face was hidden. “Oh! confound 
that man. I’m glad I faced him out. I should have 
felt degraded even below myself if I had given in. 
The mind dependent upon the body, and the body 
upon Main waring Savile’s brutal whim: there’s a 

237 


Yarborough the Premier 


noble conception of life for you! But Flf not give 
in: I resent and resist the physical dominion of 
pain.” 

Momington coming in with a tray put him to 
silence, somewhat to the relief of Carteret, who sat 
down by his side and sipped his cup of coffee. 

“Pah! too sweet,” he grumbled. “Here’s a note 
just come for thee, my lad.” 

It lay on the tray, a thin blue envelope, with little 
in its appearance to distinguish it from a trades- 
man’s bill. Yarborough glanced at it with indiffer- 
ence. 

“ If it were to offer me the premiership, I wouldn’t 
read it to-night. Let it be. Who brought it?” 

“Momington says it’s been waiting for thee since 
eight o’clock. An official in uniform brought it, and 
couldn’t be pacified when he heard thee was out.” 

“ I get a score of letters by every post, and half of 
them go straight into the fire. This has been a long 
day, Carteret.” 

“Has it, my lad?” 

“But it’s over and done with now, and can be 
locked up and laid away among the things I don’t 
care to remember. And yet, you know, it’s no good 
blinking facts: I haven’t the slightest desire ever to 
get up and go to work again.” 

“ Report was saying to-night that Lord Hayes had 
definitely handed in his resignation this afternoon.” 

“Report lied, probably — if one may argue from 
analogy. Or if he did, what’s that to me?” 

Carteret put up his eyebrows. ‘ ‘ I fancied it might 
be a good deal.” 


238 


I 


Yarborough the Premier 

“Were you such a fool as to be taken in by my 
gasconnades ? They were ambitious enough, Lord 
knows,” said Yarborough scornfully. “ If I were 
thirty years older and emasculate by office-seeking, 
I might have a chance : but Fm not born for suc- 
cess. I am, and shall always be, a failure.” 

Carteret, finishing his coffee, looked at him severe- 
ly over the edge of the cup: then he set it down 
carefully, and got up. “I am bound to say I never 
heard any young man talk more foolishly,” he re- 
marked, “but perhaps it’s excusable, seeing ’s thee’s 
evidently dropping to sleep. Go straight to bed 
like a good boy, and don’t dare to get up till I 
come round in the morning, or I’ll loose a doctor at 
thee. Good-night.” 

Sure that he was doing the best thing for Yar- 
borough, he turned the gas low and departed: his 
soft little step pattered away down the stair : a 
vague thud announced the careful shutting of the 
street door. He was gone, and Yarborough was 
left alone in the semi-darkness : alone with his own 
thoughts and unrequited memories. 

About an hour later, Yarborough, struggling pain- 
fully back from the hell of feverish insomnia, saw 
the unopened letter lying on the table within reach 
of his hand. Too exhausted to get beyond specu- 
lation, he lay back on his pillow and watched it: 
the shape of the small square envelope, the colour 
and texture of the rough blue paper, were vaguely 
familiar to him. The typed address gave him no 
clue, except a suggestion that the writer wished to 
avoid publicity. Every unopened letter is like a 

239 


Yarborough the Premier 


leaf out of the book of the oracles : it is a coin of un- 
known value, a cast of the dice in the game of life. 
Yarborough shrank from the exertion of tearing 
open the letter, or believed he did: but he was fas- 
cinated by it : and presently he found himself holding 
it in his hand, without clearly knowing how it got 
there. His will remaining inert, the body had acted 
automatically, under the viceroyalty of some secret 
inner mechanism of thought. Having got it, he let 
it drop from his lax fingers: but some stinging re- 
membrance of Savile’s insolence brought him back 
to it in a few seconds, and now as a way of escape. 
He opened it and drew out a sheet of paper, evenly 
folded, and covered with cramped, bold writing. 
Ere the listless wonder over an unknown hand had 
formulated itself in his brain, it was superseded by 
a conviction which broke over him like a lightning 
flash. The letter was signed “Hayes.” 

It was the cup of the wine of triumph. 

And, by a stroke of the irony of destiny, it was 
given into his hand in the hour of Dead Sea fruit. 
In the very hour when all the years and all the la- 
bours of his life seemed to him like sand which the 
wind blows through the desert, the cup was put into 
his hands, of which if he drank he became a bonds- 
man of that labour for ever. How dull, cramped, 
and petty was the arena: how insignificant the 
part that he was called on to play! How long 
seemed the working years without Margaret, how 
insufferable the degradation, how bitter the abne- 
gation required of him, and him alone! The old 
longing, the old insuperable prayer awoke in Yar- 
240 


Yarborough the Premier 


borough : ‘ ‘ Oh that I had wings like a dove! then would 
I fly away and be at rest."' 

Prayer was translated into action: Yarborough 
got up and went to his desk. The throb of unex- 
pected pain which shot through him when he moved 
his injured arm drew from him an exclamation of 
annoyance: he had literally forgotten his injuries. 
He wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, addressed 
the envelope to Lord Hayes, and sealed it with his 
private seal. No one stirred in the sleeping house 
as he ran softly down the stair and let himself out 
into the street. There was a pillar-box just across 
the way : he dropped the letter into it, and, turn- 
ing, looked up and down the wide, empty, moonlit 
street. 

The clock of a church hard-by struck the hour : 
twelve. As if it had been a signal, bells began to 
chime, far and near: a musical peal came from over 
the river, and from the distant Clock Tower a deep, 
plangent vibration, like a sob, came, wind-borne, 
from the bell that marks the hours of England’s 
counsellors. As many tones of melancholy har- 
mony seemed to blend in Yarborough’s ears, as the 
million tones of light and shadow that blended in the 
moonlit sky. And suddenly London herself seemed 
to speak to him, with the cry of her populace in 
travail, so many souls that know not their right 
hand from their left : patiently working, patiently 
and wearily expecting to be delivered. He heard 
the cry of that great captive host, the wasted voices 
of children born to starvation, the curses of women 
born to shame, the fierce murmuring of men born to 
i6 241 


Yarborough the Premier 


thraldom for scanty bread : and he knew that he 
could never forsake their service. 

A quarter of an hour later, a second missive was 
posted, briefer than the first. 


“My Lord, Tear up the other letter. God helping me, I 
will do my best. 


“Yours very truly, 


“C. Y." 


For Yarborough, as for many others unknown, 
the cup of the wine of triumph was the cup of God’s 
sacrament, imbittered with tears. 

The night was very still, brooded over, one might 
think, by the wings of unseen powers. A little this 
side of eternity the stars hung, like golden ships on 
a crystal sea : the moon slept on a western tide 
of azure. Compassed about by the co-ordinate array 
of the spheres, she dropped a Jacob’s ladder of pale 
light and purity from the bright workings of heaven 
to earth with her warring cities. Yarborough 
walked with his face towards her face, and still had 
that sense of immortality overshadowing him. The 
realm of the night and of the cold moon, which 
none of earth’s cries and prayers can ever reach, 
seemed to make of all his cares something quite 
small and unimportant. He saw life more vividly 
than ever before in its relation to eternity : and was 
amazed to find its problems simplified by that com- 
parison. The resurrection of the dead was still, to 
him, an old wives’ fable: but he felt the eternity of 
the universe and of the power that works in it : and 
to that power he was ready to submit, even though 
242 


Yarborough the Premier 

its will was to rob him of the breath of life and 
turn him to the dust whence he sprang. 

It was close on one o’clock when he reached 
Savile’s house, but the lamps were burning still in 
the lower rooms. None, however, was lighted in 
the smoking-room, into which he was shown to wait 
for Savile. The moon looked in at the window, 
between rich foreign brocades, blackened by her 
chill and bluish light : upon the inlaid floor she cast 
a marquetry of pale silver, and struck white sparks 
and flaws of cold flame from the rack of Damascene 
swords that hung against the wall. Out of reach 
of her levin-lighted fingers a mirror leaned from 
broken folds of shadow, full of ghostly reflections 
touched by lightenings and glooms. When Savile 
entered, he was felt and heard rather than seen : 
then a pale face looked down at Yarborough, and 
he spoke, leaning his hand on the table. 

“I’m at your service: will you have lights?’’ 

“No, I like the dark better: and I will not keep 
you long. I have to give you the confession you 
asked for.’’ 

Savile took the paper from Yarborough’s hand 
and read it by the moonlight. 

“So: you’ve signed it, I see,” he said. “Why?” 

“For you to give to Margaret.” 

“I must tell you,” Savile said after a pause, 
“though it may sound brutal, that this is quite 
unnecessary. Miss Carew does not, as a matter of 
fact, distrust me.” 

“My dear fellow, I know that she accepts your 
word as implicitly as she doubts mine. My motive 

243 


Yarborough the Premier 


is not what you think. You do not perhaps know 
that I am to be premier?” 

“I did not know it, because Lord Hayes does not 
confide in an under-secretary: but I’ve been too 
much behind the scenes to be surprised. Let me 
congratulate you.” 

“Thanks: and now you’re probably wondering 
why I’m here.” 

“No: I was only wondering why you chose this 
particular moment to make me a present of a scan- 
dalous secret.” 

“I am not such a tyro as to believe that every 
man is a rogue because I am a rogue myself. I 
might trade on that paper: you would rather die. 
I give it you as a refined species of bribe, because 
I want your help.” 

“My help in what?” 

“In forming a cabinet. My own party is weak, 
both intellectually and numerically: the elder men 
are incapable, the younger are inexperienced. Our 
ranks are thinned by death, or I should never have 
won this unparalleled triumph.” 

“But this is a coalition you’re proposing?” 

“Has such a thing never been done before? 
History repeats itself, that is all : especially when it 
is spurred by necessity. Now you’re going to say 
that you’re at loggerheads with my policy: but be 
candid, and own that ten times you have been on 
the brink of quarrelling with your uncle!” 

“Lord Ferdinand is a bit deliberate,” Savile ad- 
mitted. “But I’m a Conservative Imperialist my- 
self.” 


244 


Yarborough the Premier 


“And I’m a Liberal Imperialist. Drop the pre- 
fix, and join me on the common basis of Empire; 
it’s broad enough.’’ 

Savile did not answer : he thought, in his be- 
wilderment, that Yarborough must possess a sin- 
gularly mercurial temperament. The scene in B ex- 
ton Street, not three hours gone by, was fresh in his 
own mind with every attribute of terror : he was 
racked by it, haunted, to the exclusion of sleep, 
by the memory of his own passion. By Yarborough 
it seemed clear forgotten, a thing out of mind, a 
trifle, brushed aside by the intrusion of a more seri- 
ous interest. Savile experienced a check : he was at 
a loss, confounded by the total change of emotion in 
Yarborough’s mind, so little answerable to his own 
brooding recollections. They talked at cross-pur- 
poses, from different planes of thought. Yarborough’s 
discerning wit entered readily into his embarrassment. 

“You can’t shake off the memory of Bexton 
Street?’’ he said. “I felt the same myself an hour 
ago, before I read Lord Hayes’s letter. After that, 
it was as if I had passed from one room into the 
next: the things of the first room had no longer 
any interest for me. You profess to have excellent 
reasons for considering me a scoundrel : I reply 
that you are at perfect liberty to chastise the 
scoundrel, provided you support the statesman. 
Do you understand?’’ 

“Can’t say I do,’’ said Savile thoughtfully. “Do 
you mean that you are willing to stand any sort 
of private kicks for the sake of getting the ha’pence 
of office?’’ 


245 


Yarborough the Premier 


“You’ve hit it.’’ 

“And you bribe me to serve under you by grati- 
fying what you suppose to be my taste in revenge?’’ 

“I certainly did suppose that you wanted that 
document: you made enough fuss about getting it.’’ 

“ But an hour back you would have let me shoot 
you — !’’ Saville began: and then breaking off he 
stepped back, throwing out his hands as if he were 
at the end of his Latin. “Well, I’m out,’’ he con- 
fessed. “I beg your pardon, Yarborough, but I’m 
completely at fault. I guess I’ve been clean out 
in my reckoning, all along. Would you mind ex- 
plaining yourself?’’ 

“By all means,’’ said Yarborough. “I came to 
do it. What I want is political power, and to get it 
I must have subordinates worthy of me. I can send 
Mallinson to the Exchequer — ’’ 

“He’ll not take it.’’ 

“He will, if I ask him. I can give Hammersley 
the War Office, as I once promised him — ’’ Yar- 
borough broke off to laugh, while Savile stared at 
him. 

“Nobody can work with Hammersley: he’ll kick 
over the traces in twenty-four hours.” 

“Not when I’ve got the whip -hand of him,” 
Yarborough retorted with an exceedingly arrogant 
look, which struck Savile as promising lively times 
for an intractable cabinet. “And you, I want for 
the Home Office.” 

“What a tour de force it would be! You seem to 
have got it all cut and dried.” 

“ Do you think I am such a fool as to plot without 
246 


Yarborough the Premier 


planning? or do you suppose I mean to get to- 
gether a cabinet of freaks? I trust that the only 
bizarre figure in the new ministry will be the prime- 
minister.” 

“But it strikes me that I shall be a tolerably 
bizarre figure myself,” Savile objected. “You’re 
asking me to rat, you know.” 

“I’m asking you to do what Peel did in ’46 and 
Gladstone did in ’54. You know yourself that the old 
ideals of Lord Hayes and your uncle are worn out : 
there’s no virtue in them. I ask you to rat from the 
old position, pending the formation of a new one. 
The Conservatives will never again go to the coun- 
try with their old programme. For a hundred 
yards ahead the way lies clear, an Imperial and not 
a party route : I only ask you to go with me as far 
as the next cross-roads.” 

“But my own people — ” 

“Are too far behind the times to make anything 
but a split and disorganised opposition. Do not 
you be too proud to go and learn your lesson of the 
country, instead of at the dame-school of party.” 

“The country?” Savile echoed, with true aristo- 
cratic disdain. “What’s the country?” 

“Your master and mine.” 

“I never knew it.” 

“Did you not? I believe I am almost alone in 
believing it.” 

“Well, I always held I belonged to the governing 
classes myself.” 

“To be sure you did! Does not your name 
figure in Debrett?” 


247 


Yarborough the Premier 


Savile bit his lip. “That’s the shallow sneer of 
the democrat,’’ he said. “Apart from the question 
of birth, do you seriously assert that a land-owner, 
a rich man with thousands of workmen under him, 
with an educated moral sense and an intellect 
trained in principles of fair play, hasn’t a better 
right to have his say on a question of government 
than Hodge the ploughman, with what little wits 
he ever had muddled away in drinking bad beer?” 

“Which has the better right to be heard — the 
wronged man, or he that did the wrong and got 
rich by it?’’ 

Savile shrugged his shoulders. “I admit that I 
argued like a woman,’’ he said, “and you answer 
me according to my folly.’’ 

“I answer you with the voice that rings in my 
own ears day and night : the voice of the inarticulate 
oppressed millions whose congregated outcry is not 
heard so far inland as the waves on our shore.” 

“What is all this about, in Heaven’s name? 
you must be mad, Yarborough!” 

“I am not mad, but speak forth the words of 
truth and soberness. Don’t you know it? hear 
and learn.” Yarborough laid his hand, cold as ice, 
upon Savile’s wrist. “Since first I learned to 
speak ana read, I’ve trained myself for this : I re- 
member as a child and as a boy, at Chanston, that 
whatever I read or studied I had this end in view. 
It has been my dream, night and day, day and 
night, year in, year out. I’m for England body 
and soul. For England, I gave up Margaret when I 
thought she loved me. For England, I ruined 
248 


Yarborough the Premier 


Edmund and drove him into exile. I lied for 
England : for England I stole that treaty — why ? 
Because it was selling us to Germany. You don’t 
see that, you shut your eyes to it, though even 
among your own followers heretical murmurs were 
raised : blind you are, and can’t and won’t see what 
you’re doing. I must get power: I’m the only man 
in England who can do the work that’s got to be 
done. Fremantle is too nice to soil his fingers, he 
wants to work in kid gloves: the fool, he sets his 
private honour above the honour of England! Let 
him and all his crew go with clean hands into the 
everlasting lukewarm perdition which is the eternal 
heritage of paltering idiots I I thank whatever 
gods there be, England is mine, not theirs. The 
man who would die for her or dishonour himself for 
her will make a better premier than your picturesque 
sophist.” He broke off and turned towards the 
window, towards the great stars and the holy and 
solitary moon. “Anglo-Saxon that you are, why 
don’t you laugh at me for such a rhapsody? Other 
men have lived and died for England: I am only 
the representative voice of a great host, scattered 
over the face of the earth, but always loyal, any 
one of whom has an equal right to be premier on the 
score of his patriotism. But let us talk as practical 
men, and I do not despair of convincing you that I 
have certain ideas which even an aristocratic Con- 
servative need not disdain to assist. Listen! will 
you hear all that I design to bring about — I, single- 
handed, alone against the people and their false 
prophets who cry ‘ Peace, peace ’?” 

249 


Yarborough the Premier 

Savile mutely bent his head : and Yarborough went 
on to furnish him with a sketch of his future policy in 
its twofold aspects of internal and external adminis- 
tration. Freedom was to him no abstraction, but the 
spirit which is the breath of life : concise and pregnant 
were his words when he spoke of her. The cleansing 
of great cities, the enrichment of the lives of the 
poor, the cheapening of justice, the deepening of 
education, the purifying responsibility of citizen- 
ship, these were the problems which he handled, 
not with the vague enthusiasm of an idealist, but 
with the terse and literal detail of a practical 
politician. He was so far from a blind submission 
to precedent, that he was likely to get accused of 
devotion to paradox: but Savile, keeping an open 
mind, recognised that he was too honest ever to be 
dragged at the chariot-wheels of his own theories. 
Old and new alike were weighed on their merits, 
for Yarborough had that profound love of truth 
which turns every discussion into a vote by ballot. 
Savile recalled, not without distaste, the philan- 
thropic concessions of Lord Ferdinand: he was far 
more in sympathy with Yarborough’s splendid 
impropriety than with the elegant formalism of his 
uncle. He wondered what Lord Ferdinand would 
have made of certain trenchant proposals, which 
assuredly had little to recommend them in the 
vote - market, except, indirectly, their appeal to 
that admiration of hardihood which is the mark 
of a virile country. Passing on, Yarborough 
sketched out a plan of foreign relations: and here 
again Savile saw the hand of a master at work, 
250 


Yarborough the Premier 


rending veils, casting ruthless light upon dark 
places. Intricacies of Continental policy, over 
which Savile had racked his brains in vain, sud- 
denly stood plain and bare in the blaze of com- 
prehension: and with the revelation of unsuspected 
peril, came the marvellous lucidity of a way of 
escape. Abroad, as at home, Savile saw with 
astonishment great problems solved as by the 
touch of a magician, mysteries and shadows illumi- 
nated by the prophetic light of those inscrutable 
eyes. It was all clear, clear as the moonbeams in 
the gray lake of the sky: yet, when he turned from 
Yarborough’s interpretation and tried to read the 
crystal for himself, in a moment it became blurred 
and inexplicable, like the dusk reflecjtions in the 
clouded mirror. It seemed to him that Yarborough 
spoke as one of Heaven’s oracles. 

"‘So it shall be in the days to come,” said Yar- 
borough slowly. “So, in the days to come, I will 
make it to be. There are two only who are strong 
enough to shape the destinies of England: God is 
the greater of these, and I am his vicegerent. Now, 
do you still think me a charlatan?” 

Savile made one last effort. “Can a man serve 
God by lies?” he asked. 

“A man must serve God according to his lights 
and his day. My creed permits me to lie in the 
service of England, but not in my own service: 
I do not say that I have always held to that 
creed, but I say that the creed is good, whatever 
the practice may have been. If I commit Eng- 
land to a course of criminal success, I am perfect- 

251 


Yarborough the Premier 


ly ready to be damned for it in my own proper 
person." 

“You’d be a greater man if you were honest." 

“Honest? What is honesty? I don’t serve my- 
self by my dishonesty. Do you know that I am 
ruining myself? I was never a rich man: but I am 
poor enough in all conscience, since I paid my elec- 
tion bills in Whitney. I live hard: few mechanics 
harder. I believe there is not a man in England 
that works longer hours than I do : ay, or as long. 
In ten years I have had but one holiday : and how 
has that ended?" . 

“In heart-break, I fear," Savile said, simply. 

Yarborough smiled. “I loved her well," he said. 
“So well that I’m tired of my life because I’ve 
lost her. If I could have my way, my desire, my 
dream. I’d go to her, and rest my head on her breast, 
and she should hold me, and I would never go from 
her again. And after that, my prayer would be to 
publish that confession and clear Edmund’s name, 
to touch his hand again before I died, to get his par- 
don for the unspeakable wrong I did him — If you 
could only know how exceedingly one wearies of the 
toy sceptre and the tinsel crown! Do you think I 
care for honours ? I foresee them coming on me thick 
and fast. In ten years I shall have refused a peer- 
age, and I shall probably be married to some woman 
who will be aristocratic enough for my party, rich 
enough for my creditors, and fool enough to take 
me: and what will you be then? You’ll be married 
to the woman you love. But I shall never have 
Margaret, I shall never hold her in my arms: she 
252 


Yarborough the Premier 


is yours, and you will take her away from me. 
Though I beget sons, they will be the sons of a 
strange woman. When I am an old man, and the 
best -hated man in England, I shall see you with 
Margaret by your side and her children on your 
knee. ... I was not made for that. Give me my due, 
Savile, and let me go my way, for it is my right. 
You must help me to my throne and crown and 
sceptre: barren honours are they all! You will help 
me?” 

“I’ll help you,” Savile answered: his voice shook. 
“I’ll serve under you. But I’m sorry for you, Yar- 
borough, and that’s the truth. Is it to be always 
like this?” 

“You’d like to bring me to the fire-light? No, let 
me go: my mission is of the night, and I am ap- 
pointed no kindlier ally than that white unlistening 
child of God up yonder.” He turned, and lifted his 
hand towards the window: the moonlight falling 
across his face showed how calm it was, and how 
completely estranged from earthly things. “Never 
grieve for me, Savile: I have all I was framed to 
have. So you’ll serve under me?” 

Savile ’s answer was an unreserved assent. He 
had meant to make reservations, to qualify, dis- 
tinguish, limit: but he could not do it that night: 
he could as soon have thought of striking a bar- 
gain with the angel of judgment. Yarborough 
seemed to take his answer for granted, as if he had 
never contemplated the possibility that he might 
be refused. He spoke as an ambassador on behalf 
of an irresistible power. 

253 


Yarborough the Premier 


“And so you collect swords,” he said a minute 
later, turning from the window to the stand of 
quaintly wrought weapons ranged against the wall. 
“A fascinating pursuit: I know nothing more ro- 
mantic than to carry olf some old treasure of the 
wicked East, rusted half with crimes and half with 
good service.” 

“They are curious,” Savile said slowly, thrown 
off by the sudden change of venue. “I’m a bit of 
an amateur of bronzes. The collection is valuable, 

I believe.” 

Yarborough lifted a long curved scimitar that . 
glittered like a snake against the wall. “How the 
moonlight sparkles on them!” he said. “ How cold, 
foreign, exotic they look! See this bending blade, 
waved all over like running water : it is beautiful and 
keen, is it not? It will fight well: probably it has 
gone through strange vicissitudes already. How it 
clangs against its fellows, now I let it drop! There’s 
a sort of leaping murder in these Oriental weapons: 
they are fashioned to cut down an unarmed man, or 
to strike an armed man from behind. Yet one can 
turn them to good account, too: they are just as 
subtle, springing, and alive in the hand of the right- 
eous judge.” 

“Which fable means?” 

“I am like one of your Eastern swords, patterned 
for murder. I am ingrained with the vices of craft 
and treachery : I believe I have neither conscience, 
honour, nor soul : and yet I shall keep England’s hon- 
our unstained. I give you leave to think what you 
like of the instrument, but you must respect the 

254 


Yarborough the Premier 


hand that wields it. Keep that paper of mine, for 
every word of it is true: and yet, such as I am, you 
will be my servant to-morrow, because I am only the 
scimitar in the hand of England. Think of me so, 
during the years to come. I shall not bore you with 
many such self -revelations : but when you see me 
rich and famous, never dream that I would not give 
all the Dead Sea fruit of ambition for one touch of 
Margaret’s hand, one kiss from the lips of a child of 
hers and mine. Good-night. You’ll hear from me 
officially to-morrow.” 


XVI 


The End Is at Hand 

“When autumn sad but sunlit doth appear, 

With his gold-hand gilding the falling leaf.” 

M ist lay in swathes over the gold of reaped 
fields: out of its pale sea the trees rose like 
islands, the darkness of their summer leafage thinned 
and gilded here and there by frost. Girdled by 
woodlands, Chanston looked across its terrace and 
gardens, over the fields and woods, to the dark 
boundary of the hills, where a red September sun 
was sinking slowly into a bank of fog. In a dip be- 
tween the cliffs the sea sparkled out incarnadined 
by a streak of ruby light : but inland all lights and 
tones of colour* were dimmed by the mist, and au- 
tumn, with its memory of May evenings and pre- 
science of advancing storm, was king of all. And 
upon Chanston itself desolation was coming like an 
armed man, whose hand had already set a mark 
on mouldering cornice and broken wall: the Eliza- 
bethan tile-work of the roof was patched with cheap 
slates, the garden was a wilderness of unpruned 
roses, and a chestnut of the avenue, borne down by 
the winds of a past winter, lay unregarded along 
the foot of the terrace, trailing its bare boughs over 
the crumbling steps. 


256 


Yarborough the Premier 


The premier’s spoiled son stood with his arms 
crossed on the balustrade of the terrace, looking sea- 
wards, and eating peaches out of a basket. Amid 
age, and decay, and the oncoming of autumn, Justin 
Yarborough in the unripe growth of his fifteen years 
might have been taken for an incarnation of spring. 
Eager eyes had Justin, beaming with faith and in- 
nocence, and eager lips, yet with something of his 
father’s full satiric curve; and the soft, thin, young 
figure, with arms and legs shooting out of his tweed 
suit, was full of fresh and eager life and sinewy 
strength, like a young animal, or a budding willow- 
wand. He stood in the attitude of a listener, break- 
ing out now and again into a few notes of song: it 
was during such an interval that Yarborough him- 
self came quietly up behind him and touched him on 
the shoulder. 

“You at last!’’ Justin cried, turning a morning 
face towards his father. “What an unconscionable 
time you’ve been! I’ve eaten seven peaches while 
I was waiting.’’ 

“I had work to do, and the notes of to-morrow’s 
speech to look over : besides which Carteret rang me 
up and kept me half an hour at the telephone.” 

“ I’ve told you heaps of times you oughtn’t to do 
any work on a Sunday,” Justin said. He put his 
hands behind him on the balcony and wriggled him- 
self up into a sitting posture, to bring his eyes on 
a level with his father’s. “Father, how grim you 
look! Has Carteret been bothering you about that 
Eastern trouble?” 

“How still the evening is!” said Yarborough 
257 


17 


Yarborough the Premier 


dreamily, passing by his question. “What were 
you gazing at so earnestly, son of mine, with that 
acolyte look in those dark eyes of yours?” 

“That sparkle of the sea round the headland. I 
do like this place: I’d like to stop here always, 
instead of just running down from Saturday to 
Monday. But I want to hear about Carteret.” 

“You’ll see it on the news-sheets to-morrow 
morning. Can you be up by six? I have to start 
early.” 

Justin’s toss of the head evinced some natural 
scorn. “Up by six, indeed! I was up at five yes- 
terday morning, weeding the rose-border.” 

“The deuce you were!” said the premier, amused. 
“What unfailing energy!” 

“Don’t swear, my lord,” said Justin. He put up 
his young hand, slim and soft and brown, over the 
nervous thin fingers that lay on his shoulder. “It’s 
the peaches that bother me so,” he explained, “it 
seems no end of a pity to leave them behind. I’ve 
been trying to eat them all up before we go.” 

“A laudable ambition,” said Yarborough drily, 
“but do not make yourself ill. I could not afford 
the expense of a funeral, and I shall have neither 
patience nor leisure for sick-nursing. ” 

Justin laughed, but absently. “You are cal- 
lous,” he said, “and you haven’t told me about 
Carteret.” 

“And if I were to tell you that Russia is occupy- 
ing Merv, what good would it do you?” 

Justin had got what he wanted; and he sat looking 
blankly into the premier’s eyes, aghast and per- 
258 


Yarborough the Premier 

plexed. “Upon Merv — oh!'^ he gasped with in- 
creasing dismay: “but that means India!” 

“Preceded by a European war,” Yarborough sug- 
gested. “You paint in lurid colours, Just.” 

“It’s what the newspapers have been prophe- 
sying for weeks. How they will cackle over it — 
beastly things!” 

“Let me state the case in a nutshell,” said Yar- 
borough, blandly. “Russia has lent a handful of 
Cossacks to the Emir for the suppression of brigand- 
age on the border.” 

“ Is that what you are going to say in the House?” 

“Certainly I shall say it, if any one should have 
the temerity to question me : which Savile probably 
will.” 

“They will think Russia has stolen another march 
upon us.” 

The premier smiled. “They are welcome to think 
what they please.” 

“And you are not going to explain?” Yarbor- 
ough shook his head. “Oh, father, what a Sphinx 
you are! I don’t wonder they get rather mad. I 
should think there’ll be awful rows this session.” 

“ I have never yet known a session without rows.” 

“ ’Twill be interesting,” said Justin pensively. “I 
love to see them getting cross, you do annoy them 
so. They try so hard to get a handle against you, 
and you’re always too clever for them.” 

The sight of so much invincible youthful gaiety 
and confidence brought a smile to Yarborough’s lips. 
“Do you like rows, little fool?” he said. “So per- 
haps did I, before I learned wisdom and sorrow.” 

259 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Why do you always talk as if you were as old as 
Methuselah? You’re not so very old,’’ Justin pro- 
tested: “you’re only fifty.’’ 

“Fifty years is a long time to look back on. 
Much may happen in fifty years to change and age a 
man who works hard.” 

“And you always did work hard, didn’t you? I 
know, I know: and then those cads at St. Stephen’s 
try and make out that you’re living on a sinecure. 
Never mind! you ;just wait till I get into Parliament.” 

“You intend to adopt a political career, then? 
and pray how soon?” 

“Of course I shall as soon as ever I — Listen! 
There’s the bell for church. Aren’t you coming?” 

“Are you?” 

Justin nodded. “I think perhaps you’d better,” 
he said, wriggling off the balustrade. “Otherwise 
you’ll go grubbing away at those beastly old blue- 
books of yours as soon as my back’s turned. And 
you can look over my book. Have you got any- 
thing for the collection?” he pursued, dragging the 
premier along by a reluctant hand. “It wouldn’t 
look nice for you to pass the bag, or put in a button. 
It might lose you the ecclesiastical vote.” 

Yarborough suffered himself to be led away un- 
resisting: he never denied his son’s requests, and 
might have been in a fair way to spoil him, if Justin 
had not possessed one of those happy natures which 
cannot be spoiled. But there was a shadow in 
Yarborough’s eyes, as they walked together down 
the avenue, crushing under their feet a drift of 
sycamore leaves, while the sun shot his red and level 
260 


Yarborough the Premier 

rays over the russet and gold of the tall fronds of 
the bracken. 

“Justin,” he said at length, looking curiously 
down into the vivid young face, with its soft curves 
of undeveloped energy and undefined ambition, 
“what would you do if I were to die?” 

Justin winced and turned white: he hung upon 
Yarborough’s arm with lips apart and wide beseech- 
ing eyes, like some wounded animal fawning upon 
the hand that has struck it. “Oh, father, why?” 
he faltered. 

“As a mere matter of curiosity. I have no par- 
ticular intention of dying, but I like to witness your 
ingenuous regret.” 

“ I should buy a black suit and a big hymn-book, 
and wear a band of crape round my hat, deep in 
proportion to the relief I felt at getting rid of you.” 

‘ ‘ And order a tombstone with a suitable inscrip- 
tion: ‘Pro patria mortuus est’? or, ‘Honesty is the 
best policy,’ Yarborough rejoined, in no wise dis- 
concerted, but replying to Justin’s youthful cynicism 
with his own profound and bitter irony. “Thanks: 
and now let me have the truth.” 

Justin gave his father a sidelong, appealing glance: 
but obtaining no remission, he rendered obedience 
in the spirit of a Roman soldier. “I would try to 
vindicate your name,” he said soberly. 

“Good Heavens, what a singular ambition! And 
how would you set about cleansing that, Augean 
stable?” 

“At least I’d make them understand that you 
don’t tell lies, or cheat, or swindle, or get a per- 
261 


Yarborough the Premier 


cent age out of the army contracts, or gamble in 
joint-stock companies under the name of Smith.” 

“ ‘ Feathering my nest with the timbers of the ships 
of State,’ ” Yarborough quoted with his acid smile, 
“as one of the Irish members said at Birmingham 
the other day. If I feathered my nest with those 
timbers, I certainly didn’t patch my roof with them: 
that old place will come tumbling about our ears 
one of these windy nights.” 

“I’ll tell them about that : and I’ll tell them about 
the time you were out of office, and how we used 
to have nothing but bread and butter for breakfast, 
and three slices of cold mutton for dinner, and how 
we didn’t keep any servants except a grimy little 
slavey to do the housework, and old Forrest to 
drive the brougham, and Mornington because he said 
he was never going to leave you, and didn’t care how 
long he waited for his wages. Oh, but I do think 
people are donkeys!” Justin cried out wrathfully. 
“As if anybody couldn’t see by just looking at you 
that you weren’t the sort of cad that tells lies and 
does things underhand!” 

Yarborough turned his head away with the look 
of a man who receives an expected stab and finds 
it sharper than usual. “You believe in me, don’t 
you?” he said, laying his hand caressingly on the 
soft dark hair. “You are very sure that I have 
never committed, nor ever could commit, any ac- 
tion which would not bear the fullest scrutiny of 
daylight?” 

“You know I do!” 

“Well, well,” said the premier, sighing. “What 
262 


Yarborough the Premier 


a boy it is, after all! What a romantic, hot-headed, 
confiding little fool! Are you sure you’re my son, 
Just? You’re not much like your father.” 

“If I were a real proper kind of patriot, instead 
of a mere twentieth - century schoolboy, I know 
what I should do,” Justin observed. They had left 
Chanston behind by now and were walking along a 
footpath through a wood: the silence was broken 
by the distant pealing of bells from their invisible 
bourn, and filled with the moan of the Herhstwind 
in the branches of the firs overhead. 

“What would you do?” Yarborough inquired with 
a curiosity kept fresh by the fact that Justin’s ideas 
were not, as a rule, easily guessed beforehand. 

“Poison Mainwaring Savile.” 

“I confess that is hardly the answer I expected. 
What has Mr. Savile done to you?” 

“Attacked you.” 

“Simple, but unconvincing. Don’t you know 
that he risked his own reputation to serve under me, 
when I was first called to office?” 

“Yes, and ratted at the first crisis. I know.” 

“Excuse me, you know nothing about it. We 
worked in splendid harmony till the cabinet was 
split by a Free-Trade eruption, when his principles 
forced him to secede, and we parted with mutual 
regret. Savile was a man worth commanding: in 
that he differed from the puling conscientious fools 
who profess to follow me to-day, and do follow me 
like dogs, when I have time to crack my whip at 
them,” said the premier, with his peculiar virulent 
scorn. 


263 


Yarborough the Premier 

“Is that the kind of thing you say in the 
House?” Justin asked drily. “Because, if so, I 
don’t so much wonder at your being unpopular, 
you know.” 

“I can’t stoop to conciliate the mongrel puppies 
of my own party. I did it in the cursed days when 
I was young, and suffered the pangs of dependence : 
but I’ve lost the trick of it since.” 

“They are not mongrel puppies, really,” Justin 
pleaded, unable to keep from laughing. “I don’t 
wonder they yelp at you, when you’re so intolerably 
rude to them: naturally they don’t like it. You 
really are a very opinionated and arrogant Pasha, 
and if ever you get yourself assassinated by one of 
the men you’ve snubbed, I shall go and give evi- 
dence of provocation.” 

“I have a mind to box your ears for you,” said 
Yarborough, grimly tolerant of his son’s unfettered 
speech. “But to return: have you no other reason 
for hating Savile?” 

“He’s always so scrupulously fair, and gentle- 
manly, and impersonal. He fights you on every 
debate, and if ever you do get turned out it will 
be he that’s done it, and yet somehow he never 
gets out of hand or loses his temper or puts himself 
one scrap in the wrong.” 

“Excellent reasons, I grant, for liking him: but 
since you say you hate him — ?” 

Justin fidgeted and was silent. Yarborough, who 
had spoken without after-thought, fixed an exceed- 
ingly keen glance upon him. 

“Out with it!” he said: “since it appears you 
264 


Yarborough the Premier 


have a reason. I allow no secrets at Chanston 
except my own.” 

“His— his— ” 

“Go on.” 

“His marriage.” 

The hurried low utterance, wrung from Justin 
less by his father’s imperious will than by his own 
conception of filial duty, was succeeded by a dead 
silence: anxiously looking up, he perceived himself 
forgotten. Yarborough’s face was no longer the 
index of his temper: age, the practice of diplomacy, 
and the habit of domination had given to it a 
prevailing cast of arrogant calm: nevertheless Justin 
saw that he was strongly and strangely moved. 
He was reviewing the dark places of his own past, 
hearing inaudible voices, holding communion with 
the dead, or with those, worse than dead, who live 
and are estranged. 

“ Father!” Justin exclaimed, putting his own warm 
fingers into Yarborough’s cold hand: “Father, 
don’t! Did I hurt you?” 

Yarborough started, and looked down at him 
with an awakened, recollecting glance. “Ah — it 
was you unlocked that door,” he said. “ Did I ever 
tell you that Savile’s marriage touched me in any 
way?” 

“No,” said Justin, paling. 

“You learned it from Momington, I presume?” 

Justin with difficulty got out an inarticulate 
assent. 

“When next you wish to play the spy upon my 
secrets, let me recommend you not to apply to the 
265 


Yarborough the Premier 


servants. You have access to my keys, and could 
readily ransack my desk: such a method would be 
less public, and not more disgraceful.” 

Justin’s head was bent low: this picture of 
the scarlet evening, the gold of bracken, the russet 
dampness of a woodland path, added a fourth to a 
series of similar paintings, locked up from daylight 
in the darkest cell of his memory. But when Yar- 
borough had ended, he raised his head and looked 
up at his father with his great, dark, inflexible eyes. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, managing his 
voice like a diplomat: and added less steadily, “I’m 
very sorry I hurt you, father.” 

Yarborough’s expression changed: he put his 
hand under the soft chin, tilted back the reluctant 
face, and looked down critically into the unquelled 
eyes. 

“You take punishment well,” he said. 

“I’m your son.” 

“You’re my son, and the desire of mine eyes: 
true. But I have been in love with Margaret 
Savile all my life, and love her still, child: and old 
wounds will ache, when they are roughly handled.” 

“I’m sorry,” Justin answered, still composed, 
though his lip quivered. Yarborough gave him a 
little pat on the cheek, as a cat slaps her kittens, 
hard enough for the olive skin to redden under the 
blow: then with the same tyrannical tenderness 
leaned over him and kissed him. 

“What have I ever done, I wonder, that I should 
be a hero to this black-eyed child?” he said, with 
his far-off, melancholy smile. “There is the last 
266 


Yarborough the Premier 


bell beginning: let us walk faster, or we shall be 
late for church.” 

Nothing loath, Justin quickened his steps: but the 
tidal harmonies of the organ rolled out to meet them 
as they entered the porch. Y arborough followed Jus- 
tin into the nearest pew, and sat down : and seated 
he remained while the rector and his scanty choir 
passed up the aisle, and the rest of the congregation 
rose in reverence. The church was spacious and 
old, and smelt of earthen coolness, the worshippers 
in the nave had no light beyond what streamed 
through the jewelled windows, enamelling pavement 
and pillar in a luminous vague design, like fire 
gleaming through still water, and flickering with 
branch-shadows. Justin knelt to pray and rose to 
sing, always with the pure uplifted look of a young 
acolyte before the altar: he sang like a nightingale, 
leaning on the full rich notes with no more of mortal 
weakness or weariness than an angel. When ser- 
mon-time came, he sat upright with his hands 
clasped, listening with his soul in his eyes. It is 
certain that Yarborough did not hear a word of the 
rector's excellent and practical homily: his eyes were 
fixed alternately on Justin’s absorbed face and on 
the dark defaced hatchments of his forefathers, which 
hung over the arch of the chancel. RESURGAM: 
so ran, in dirty white lettering, the motto across the 
lozenge of the last master of Chanston. Was it a 
vaunt, or a prayer, or only a cry out of the deep? 
That question must remain unsolved till the Judg- 
ment-day, which in Yarborough’s view was a date 
coincident with that of the Greek Kalends. And 
267 


Yarborough the Premier 


with a pang of mortal regret the old bitter convic- 
tion came upon him that by-and-by, be it soon or 
late, Justin too must commit his life, now in the very 
spring of its bloom, to the uncertainty of that enig- 
matic death which has taken so many lives andr 
awaits every life that is left. In the sure and cer- 
tain hope of a joyful resurrection, Justin certain- 
ly would have no fear to die : the spirit -world was 
ever close to him, close as the world of peaches and 
bread - and - butter: but to Yarborough that hope 
was a hallucination, and the very light in his son’s 
eyes was born only of the deceivableness of the 
spirit of man, which believes because it longs to 
believe. The hymn that followed the sermon 
chanced to be one of those in which an unimagina- 
tive congregation is required to express an earnest 
longing for that Death of which they are, probably 
without exception, most heartily afraid: and Yar- 
borough, who had coolly kept his seat through the 
rest of the service, rose to join in singing “O 
Paradise! O Paradise!” with an expression of 
gleeful satire. Justin caught him in the act and 
frowned at him : but getting no satisfaction from 
the premier’s cynical countenance, he turned res- 
olutely away and devoted himself to his music. 

They were among the last to leave the church, and 
found the best part of the congregation gathered in 
the churchyard, exchanging gossip and good-nights. 
Yarborough heard his own name pronounced once 
or twice as he passed through, unrecognised in the 
gathering darkness : to his surprise (for he had al- 
ways been admired, if not exactly loved, in his own 
268 


Yarborough the Premier 


neighbourhood), it was spoken in no friendly tone. 
As they went out of the gate, he heard it uttered 
more distinctly, by the eldest of a group of men 
who drew aside to let them pass. 

“Old Yarborough? Yes, he don’t often show up 
in church : a reg’lar bad ’un, he is. He’s feathered 
his nest pretty well, I lay. I seen it in the papers 
as how — ’’ 

The rest was inaudible, for Yarborough hurried 
on to escape it. Surprised, Justin looked up, and 
saw enough in the premier’s face to make him slip 
his hand swiftly through his arm. 

“Oh, the brutes! I do hate them,’’ he cried, 
moved by that sudden heartache of sympathy which 
is so much sharper than any personal pang of wound- 
ed feeling. “Oh, father, you don’t mind, do you? 
We know it’s a lie!’’ 

“I can manage fools, and knaves, and lords,’’ 
Yarborough said, with rather more than his usual 
incisiveness of language: “which is as much as to 
say that I have the whip-hand of both Houses : but 
if the people desert me, son of mine, what shall I do? 
I have always had the people at my back. Now 
they say I shall be hooted to-morrow in the streets 
of London. Never mind!’’ He threw his arm sud- 
denly round Justin’s neck in endearment or caprice. 
“We have each other, have we not, little fighter? 
As long as I have you at my back, I dare say I can 
manage to keep the world in order.’’ 


XVII 


He Commanded Payment To Be Made 

“Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose sole sake 
I still have laboured for, with disregard 
To my own heart — for whom my youth was made 
Barren, my manhood waste.” 

P ROVIDENCE had willed that Yarborough should 
pay the great price and receive the great, deceit- 
ful reward: withered leaves of perishable gold in 
exchange for a life of labour and renunciation. Per- 
haps he fared no worse than he deserved, for he was 
no hero, or at all events not consistently heroic: 
his motives and ideals were pure, but his methods 
were questionable, and sometimes even he fell away 
from his own standard, and mixed his gold with 
dross. He changed the prophet’s hill-top vision for 
the restricted sight of the plain - dweller : then 
came confusion, mist of darkness, parting ways. 
In the end he had always fought his way back to 
light, but not without loss of a portion of his divine 
heritage of strength and sureness: in sin and suffer- 
ing, in fall and rising again, he made his great hu- 
man record and earned his earthly punishment, and 
yet perhaps was nearer to God at the end of it all 
than in those earlier, vainglorious days when he 
called himself Ritter von dem heiligen Geist. 

270 


Yarborough the Premier 


Thoughts of the past were spinning through Yar- 
borough’s brain as he leaned against the window of 
his private study on the third morning after his re- 
turn to town, for once in his life idle. Every one in 
the house believed him to be at the Foreign Office, 
where it was his invariable habit to spend his morn- 
ings: but the Iron Premier, when he chose, or was 
forced, to break his rule, did not choose to admit 
even his son or his secretary into his confidence. 
Memorials of dead folk and things gone by spied at 
him from every corner, a cloud of witnesses: over 
the mantelpiece hung an oil - painting of his dead 
wife, looking patiently with faded eyes from her 
gilded frame, while close beside it hung a stormy, 
crayon head of Constant de Chatillon, who had 
fallen behind the barricades of Paris in the death- 
hour of his beloved Republic. Yarborough’s wife, 
an unexceptionable woman, had died in the most un- 
exceptionable way of diphtheria caught in an East 
End slum, to the infinite relief of her husband, who 
married her for her money, and treated her with a 
cruel indifference which probably weakened her de- 
sire to live. This he recognised, and did not repent : 
he could be detestably cruel when he chose, and in the 
present instance it pleased him to visit upon Emily 
Yarborough’s unhappy fair head the fact, for she 
was in no way responsible, that he would rather have 
married another woman. Yarborough never looked 
at either of these portraits : the one bored him, 
while the other revived an old regret in all its keen- 
ness. Death had not the power to make him for- 
get or forgive. 


271 


Yarborough the Premier 

Far more attractive to his eyes was the sketch in 
water-colours of Justin at the age of twelve, which 
confronted him on the opposite arch of the window. 
Lovely and delicate as one of Greuze’s wistful chil- 
dren, the naive young face nevertheless was not 
without a hint of sterner qualities, of power, origi- 
nality, and sarcasm in the bud: it even suggested 
that Justin was already capable of analysing and 
deriding his own pretensions to the r 61 e of cherub. 
It was this queer look, half espiegle and half ma- 
licious, and wholly freakish and elusive, which some- 
times made Yarborough wonder whether, after all, 
he would not have done better to trust the 
whole book of his life to his son’s reading. Justin 
was young, but he was versed in statecraft : he 
had grown up from babyhood under the shadow of 
his father’s greatness, and was the unabashed re- 
pository of plans for which rival statesmen intrigued 
across whispering continents. To him, Yarborough 
sometimes fancied, the story of that great, lonely, 
degraded life might have been told, as to God, if any 
God had been discoverable in the wide dark of the 
universe : told with simplicity and without excuse, 
in a confidence begotten of love and justice. But 
Yarborough’s heart gave way, and the words were 
never spoken : the long deceit went on from year 
to year, while Yarborough, looking for Death to 
come sooner than the reckoning day of revelation, 
sunned himself in the light of Justin’s innocent wor- 
ship, and thrust away fear. No exquisite dread 
nightly recurrent, no perception of the unspannable 
gulf that lies between confession and detection, no 
272 


Yarborough the Premier 


pity even for Justin’s solitary despair when the 
truth should become plain to him after his father’s 
death, availed to make Yarborough relax his grasp 
of what he held. He would not risk one atom of 
Justin’s love and faith to secure their eternity. 

Turning from the painting, his glance fell on the 
street, overcast with rainy light and swart clear 
shadow. Northward the trees of the park tossed 
their russet branches flecked with yellow: south- 
ward the City poured its ceaseless cavalcade along 
Whitehall. Right before him rose the long fabric 
of the Foreign Office, teeming with great dreams and 
deeds behind the sedate gloom of citizen - aspect : 
this was his peculiar realm, and here his vast and 
intricate capacities had room to work out their own 
ambitions. Under every administration the Foreign 
Office plays the part of a Sibyl : under Yarborough 
it had become a veritable Sphinx. The old arro- 
gant Are lit up his pale face as he looked at it: 
they might accuse him of selling his country and 
gambling in stocks, but at least they could not deny 
that the land throve by such treachery, and that 
England had never been better hated or better 
feared abroad. The fact that at the present moment 
they did most vehemently deny it, and that the 
whole city was agitating itself to fury over the 
dumbness of its premier under the slights recently 
put upon English prestige, did not trouble Yar- 
borough at all. True, the news had on the previous 
day been officially announced that the murder of 
an English envoy had been followed by the occu- 
pation of a disputed Afghan city by a European 
i8 273 


Yarborough the Premier 


power: but what was that to Yarborough, who was 
convinced that within twenty-four hours he would 
have reversed the position of affairs, and turned the 
pretext of temporary concession to a neighbour in 
distress, originally designed to mask an attack, into 
one strenuously put forward to cover the shame of 
retreat? These were trifles, not worth the trouble 
of an explanation: and probably Yarborough would 
not have condescended to explain them, even if it 
had not been the case that publicity, by wounding 
the amour-propre of his secretive enemy, might 
jeopardize the success of his diplomacy. England 
stable, prosperous, honoured: such were the actual 
fruits of Yarborough’s great imperium. 

In the City black looks were seen, angry voices 
were audible : and the remarkable thing about these 
demonstrations was that they were not individual 
or spasmodic, but collective and continuous : not 
worked upon by street orators, but the outcome of 
a general feeling of ill-will, suspicion, and fear. The 
police apparently smelt danger in the air, for their 
blue coats were visible at every turning: and when 
two of their number met, they exchanged rapid 
glances of question, curiously significant in these 
prosaic reincarnations of the old Roman legionaries. 
But no rumour of this unrest disturbed the official 
calm of the street beneath Yarborough’s windows: 
it kept its vigils under the cloudy pallor of the sky 
with every appearance of being asleep. 

The hall door opened and closed, and Carteret 
came out and turned down towards Whitehall. He 
had abandoned his editorial duties to become Yar- 
274 


Yarborough the Premier 


borough’s private secretary, and the Tory papers 
had not yet done with wrangling over his motives. 
He was almost an old man now, gray-haired, very 
slight, somewhat bent; but the change was purely 
external, and his attitude towards Yarborough had 
never altered. He was still given to bantering his 
august chief, and was one of the really few men 
whom Yarborough in his most despotic moods could 
not terrify. He too believed Yarborough to be, 
as his custom was, hard at work across the way. 
The premier looked after him with a smile : he was 
fond of Carteret, who knew him to be a scoundrel, 
yet served him for love. 

There was another who, long ago, had served 
him for love, and whose memory and his very name 
had been obliterated from Yarborough’s thoughts 
more than twenty years since. The premier’s 
memory of his brother was neither forgotten nor 
outworn, but it had been thrust aside and chained 
down by the vigour of his will. An idle hour, a 
breath of autumn, a chance resemblance in the 
street, recalled to Yarborough’s thoughts the face 
of Edmund Yarborough, who had said that he 
would return one day, before the coming of the end. 
A chance resemblance, or rather a striking and haunt- 
ing likeness amid diversity, Yarborough thought, 
fixing his eyes upon the figure of a man who was 
walking languidly along the rain-streaked pave- 
ment. The likeness lay in the delicate, whimsically 
irregular features, in the slender patrician form, in 
the elegant dress with its touch of Bohemian freak- 
ishness: the dissimilarity was confined to the dead 

275 


Yarborough the Premier 

whiteness of his thick soft hair, and to a peculiarity j 
of expression, so marked and strange that it almost ^ 
overpowered the more tangible points of resem- 
blance, and made Yarborough ready to swear that 
none at all existed. The stranger had the look of a 
man who has passed through torment and has 
emerged from it insensible of lesser pains. Swing- 
ing a light cane between his fingers, he sauntered up I 
to the door of Yarborough’s house and rang. Yar- ; 
borough leaned against the window-frame, and lis- f 
tened. A moment later the door opened, and he , 
heard the indistinguishable murmur of Morning- j 
ton’s discreet voice. Then there floated up to Yar- j 
borough’s ears the clear, flexible, slightly Italianate j 
tones of the stranger’s reply. : 

“Ah, how d’ you do, Mornington: can I see Mr. | 
Christian for a few minutes?” | 

Yarborough stood motionless, his hands clasped, : 
suffocating for breath; he could neither speak nor * 
stir. He heard the murmur of voices below, and i 
guessed indistinctly that Mornington would say he , 
was not at home, but he was incapable of protest: 
his lips were vivid, his features strained. Intense 
physical pain will have its way, however strong 
the resisting will; and Yarborough, who had been 
struggling all day against its attack, was for the i 
moment at its mercy. When he recovered himself, ! 
the interview was over, and Edmund Yarborough j 
was languidly strolling away in the direction of | 
Whitehall. A singular rush of tenderness came over j 
Yarborough; he leaned out of the window, following ; 
with his eyes that figure, so youthful and so grace- | 
276 


Yarborough the Premier 

ful, endeared to him by a thousand memories of their 
common childhood. He called softly after him, 
“Edmund!” but his voice was not well under com- 
mand, and Edmund went on his way. A moment 
later, as Yarborough was about to call again, the 
house-door was flung wide, and Justin ran out on 
the pavement. He looked up and down the street, 
caught sight of Edmund, and flew after him. His 
method of making himself known was to run up to 
Edmund, slip a hand through his arm, and cry, 
lifting his beseeching, sparkling eyes, “Oh, do come 
back! He says you’re father’s brother, and I know 
all about you, and you are to come, because father 
wants you!” 

Yarborough recoiled from the window as if an 
asp had stung him. They were together, the man 
who knew his secret and the child who was never 
to know it : and things had so fallen out that he had 
not had time to warn Edmund of the danger. Most 
men are superstitious, but Yarborough had always 
held himself scornfully free of such weakness; now 
for the first time the blood of the heirs of Chanston, 
born dreamers and symbolists, ran cold through his 
veins. Nothing would have been easier than to go 
down and separate them, and impose silence by a 
word, or even a glance, upon Edmund’s rapid wits: 
and yet this easy thing was precisely what he could 
not do. His mind said, “The chances are a thousand 
to one against such a chance betrayal, therefore do 
nothing, or you may betray yourself.” His deeper 
self cried, less sophistically, “The doom is come upon 
you, and cannot be intercepted, therefore do noth- 
277 


Yarborough the Premier 


ing, but submit to it with what quietude you may.” 
He sat down to wait, inert, quiescent: the cloudy 
light streamed across the figure of an old man 
huddled in his chair. Meanwhile time flew, and 
the clock ticked through seconds and minutes to the 
customary hour of Yarborough’s return from the 
Foreign Office. Still no sign came from below. At 
last, when half an hour more of Time’s irretrievable 
sands had ebbed away, there came a step on the 
stair : a soft, hesitating step, as far removed from 
Edmund’s graceful tread as from Justin’s flying 
footfalls. Then a hand shook the door, and, finding 
it unlocked, opened it : and Justin appeared on the 
threshold. No words passed between them, for none 
were needed: to the inquisition of those supplicat- 
ing eyes Yarborough’s dark glance gave up his very 
soul in answer. All that he had ever made of him- 
self lay bare to Justin’s gaze: and he had no excuse: 
for no lie, no trick, no meanness worse than crime 
in his past life was comparable with the guilt of 
deceit practised so long upon Justin’s innocence. 
This was the unpardonable sin which could not be 
forgiven. 

Justin spoke first, coming into the room and 
closing the door behind him; he was not old enough, 
•nor sufficiently mature in suffering, to take the 
whole truth for granted, as Yarborough would have 
preferred to do: it seemed as if it could not be all 
true, and he felt that he must have it down in black 
and white. 

” Did you know Sir Edmund Yarborough was 
here?” he asked. 

278 


Yarborough the Premier 


‘‘I knew.” 

“ He has been telling me how you stole the treaty 
— I mean — ” Justin flinched visibly, but Yarborough 
made no sign — “well, I suppose it was just that. 
You did really sell it?” 

“I did really steal it and send it to the papers.” 

“And you put the blame on him.” 

“ Precisely.” 

“And you never told me.” 

“No, I never told you, and I never would have 
told you. You are my son: have I not the right 
to lie to you, if I choose?” 

Yarborough was the better for this flash of the 
old arrogant and perverted ethics: he rose to his 
feet and stood looking down at Justin, like some 
iniquitous god arraigned by his devotee. “You’re 
only a child,” he continued, “you can’t understand 
such things.” 

“Perhaps not: only I thought you were fond of 
me. 

Yarborough silently held out his arms: but Jus- 
tin stepped back. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” he cried. “Oh, I wish so I 
had never found out!” 

“Justin!” Yarborough’s hands fell on his should- 
ers. “Come to me this instant, I command you! 
I’ll not let you escape me like this. What! the mo- 
ment it pleases you you are to dance off and take 
up your abode with some infernal parson, I suppose? 
I thought duty to parents was a part of the 
Catechism.” 

“I’d nurse you, if you were ill.” 

279 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Ma foi! as Edmund used to swear, that’s edify- 
ing. You’d nurse me if I were ill, would you? Well, 
then, I am ill : sick enough for you to exercise your 
charity upon me, and practise that inestimable 
religion of yours, which teaches you to count your 
own virtues in powers of the nth, and your neigh- 
bour’s in fractions. Now will you nurse me, since 
I tell you that I am ill?” 

“Father, father, don’t!” Justin cried. He shrank 
back and put up his hands over his eyes, not to 
hide tears, for this was a trouble past weeping over, 
but to shut out the sight of the face he loved best 
in the world, defeatured and estranged by passion. 
“ Father, don’t!” again he pleaded, and Yarborough 
let him go and leaned against the window, conscious 
that this was not the best way to plead his cause. 

“What shall I say to you. Just?” he asked, with 
his old look full of sweetness and irony. “There’s 
no critic so unrelenting as a child, otherwise I might 
remind you that there are sometimes excuses to be 
found, even for the contemptible among sinners. 
I might say, for example, that the throne I bought 
so dear has not been, as you very well know, precise- 
ly an agreeable seat: or that — ” 

“No, don’t. Don’t say anything,” Justin in- 
tervened. “It isn’t any good, because I can’t be- 
lieve a word you say : you’ve told me so many things 
that weren’t true. Even just now you said you 
were ill: and how can you be ill? You were quite 
well this morning. You’ve humbugged me so 
often.” 

“Whom should I humbug if not you, little rebel?” 

280 


Yarborough the Premier 


Justin shook his head. “You ought not to have 
cheated me into loving you : you ought to have told 
me.” 

“Ought I? I liked your love so much: it was 
such a fresh, pure, innocent thing. It came to my 
hand like a wild dove out of the woods, and who was 
I to clip its wings?” 

“I think I could have borne everything, if only 
you would have trusted me. But you heard me 
say how good you were, you let me abuse the other 
people, you liked to hear me abuse them — you 
know you did! — you knew I thought you were the 
best man in the world — why, it’s just all my whole 
life that has gone to pieces,” Justin said, his lip quiv- 
ering. “Oh, and to think of last Sunday evening, 
when we went to church together! But even then, 
you did laugh in the hymn.” 

Yarborough laughed afresh, but with an altered 
accent, at this flight of inconsequent logic, which 
betrayed the child under Justin’s fifteen years. “I 
did laugh in the hymn,” he said. “I am not a good 
man, Justin: let us concede that, and see what comes 
of it. You are still my son.” 

“No.” 

“No! my young eaglet, how do you manage that? 
Whose son are you, if not mine?” 

“I’m your son in the sense of being your slave, 
but then even the slaves were free inside. You 
can’t make me love you, you know.” 

“Can’t I? But you are veritably my son all the 
same, and never more so than now, you child with 
the inflexible eyes! Was yours the kind of affec- 
281 


Yarborough the Premier 


tion which can’t exist unless it be founded on es- 
teem?” 

“I was fond of you, I did honour you,” Justin 
said, lifting his fearless, candid eyes. “I think I 
have plenty of you in me. I know it — it hurts very 
much to say things to 5mu like what have got to be 
said. I’m going away.” 

“You are not.” 

“I’ll stop if you’ll do one thing,” Justin declared. 
He stood up, facing his father, not in the least 
afraid of Yarborough’s menacing eyes. “Listen 
to me, father, for I’ll never say this twice. I do 
love you: I could forgive you everything, if I could 
believe you were truly fond enough of me to do as I 
ask you in one thing only. It was wicked, what you 
did, and if I stopped with you it would always be 
coming between us, and I should remember, and re- 
member, till I came to hate you. Will you do one 
thing for me?” 

“Let us hear what it is.” 

“Only to tell about the treaty.” 

“You want a public confession?” 

“I want Sir Edmund to be set right, and I don’t 
see any other way.” 

“In plain words, you expect me to give up the 
premiership for you ? Good Lord, the self-sufficiency 
of these children!” 

“You won’t do it?” 

“Patriotism forbids, little dreamer. If I did, 
we should be in the thick of a European war within 
twenty-four hours.” 

“I don’t think people ought to be patriotic at 
282 


Yarborough the Premier 


somebody else’s expense,” said Justin, in a low 
voice: and Yarborough laughed again. 

“What a Puritan child it is, this little son of 
mine!” he said, touching Justin’s cheek with his 
finger-tips: but Justin drew away from the caress, 
and Yarborough’s hand fell. 

“Good-bye, then,” Justin said, with a long, soft 
sigh. “I’m going away.” 

“You are not of age, I believe?” 

“Don’t, please, try to keep me: I could not live 
with you, I should run away sooner or later. I’m 
fifteen: I can work.” 

‘ ‘ In the great world ? It ’s a hard master, Justin. ’ ’ 

“I hope so; I’ve been spoiled long enough. I’ll 
write to you by-and-by, when I’ve got something 
to do.” 

“Justin, do you mean this?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“You are going away?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“You are going to leave me alone — now?” 

“You’ll have the premiership, and you like that 
better than me.” 

“My God!” said Yarborough, clenching his hands 
— ‘ ‘ my God, what a way to exact payment ! Ah, but 
there is no God: we have only this one life, and 
mine so nearly at an end — !” 

Justin threw his arms suddenly round Yar- 
borough’s neck and clung to him, laying down his 
head on Yarborough’s shoulder: once more Yar- 
borough felt the warm young heart beating close 
against his own, and he thought his son had come 
283 


Yarborough the Premier 


back to him, till he heard the inexorable pleading 
voice whisper in his ear, “O father, father, can’t 
you give it up?” 

Yarborough pushed him away with such violence 
that Justin could hardly keep his feet. “It’s all of 
a piece with the rest,” he said, his voice shaken. 
“You’ll go with the others, with Margaret and Ed- 
mund and all that ever I loved: and I’ll go to the 
work I was made for, through the last watch of the 
night. There, don’t tempt me with your damnable 
pretty, coaxing ways. I don’t want to hear another 
word. Go!” 

He pointed to the door: and Justin, taking him at 
his word, went quietly out. But he was no sooner 
gone than terror fell upon Yarborough : he lis- 
tened intently, and heard the soft steps going away 
from him down the stairs. He ran to the door and 
opened it. “Justin!” he cried, “come here, come 
back! I want you, child!” 

There was no reply. Then the whole world be- 
came unreal to Yarborough. A poignant sense of 
loss and finality came upon him, and he felt that he 
had looked his last on Justin’s face in this life. His 
was that craving for one word more, one last bright- 
ness of the eyes, which tortures those who watch 
by the newly dead. “Justin, come back to me!” he 
cried, and then, sinking against the balustrade, in a 
voice thick with faintness, and sharp with mortal 
pain, “O God! Justin, come to me. I’m dying!” 
But that cry also received no answer, except the 
distant closing of the street - door behind Justin’s 
departing figure. 


284 


XVIII 


To THE Uttermost Farthing 

“ The depth and dream of my desire, 

The bitter paths wherein I stray, 

Thou knowest, who hast made the fire, 
Thou knowest, who hast made the clay.” 



N hour later, Yarborough was still standing by 


r\ the open window, looking down into the street, 
empty and roofed with gray rainless cloud. The 
east wind blew up the street, and set the grimy dust 
whirling: fragments of dirty paper, torn fruit-skins, 
the orts and refuse of London life swirled and tossed 
in its eddying currents, or drifted into the wet gut- 
ter and were lost in its gray and impure tide. Yar- 
borough thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and 
stood looking out, finding some obscure nerve of 
sympathy touched by the gloomy afternoon. A 
sudden spate of rain blew in his face, and wetted his 
dark hair: stubborn alike to the wind’s malice and 
the ill-will of man, he stood coolly facing the dreary 
city, which from far away hummed with mutiny. 
He heard that singular murmur, like a battle-cry in 
his ears. 

To Edmund, coming in with his velvet tread, 
there was little likeness to be traced between the 
handsome, wilful boy of more than twenty years 
since, and the commanding figure of the premier. 


285 


Yarborough the Premier 


with his sombre head, marked by pride, haggard 
with pain, and scarred by a life of strong antago- 
nisms. But when he spoke, and Yarborough turned 
towards him, those twenty years seemed to fall 
away like a shadow in the sun. Bred in the habit 
of tenacious and silent affection, they met literally 
as if they had parted yesterday; they touched hands, 
and that was all : there were no cleavages of thought 
to bridge over, no ravelled ends of feeling to knit 
up. 

“How you must wish I had never come back, 
Ian!” said Edmund, using the old childish pet- 
name with his wistful, humorous smile: and Yar- 
borough’s brow cleared as he listened. 

“ I like that : it’s good to hear the old name 
again. What fun we used to have when you and I 
were boys together, Eddy!” 

“Ah, those old days have gone for good — or for 
bad. I was the confidant of your early ambitions: 
do you remember?” 

“Good heavens, yes!” Yarborough exclaimed, 
with his peculiar bitterness of tone, “in the days 
when I thought it would be amusing to be premier.” 

“And is it not so very amusing?” 

“No, the fable was reversed: the grapes were 
sweet enough till I came to eat them.” 

“Mon ami, you are of an exacting and dissatisfied 
spirit, and nothing will content your vanity but to 
throw the blame on fate. Why do you not take ex- 
ample by myself? No one could say that I have 
lived a prosperous life, and yet I protest I have en- 
joyed every moment of it.” 

286 


Yarborough the Premier 


j Yarborough had the grace to be abashed by this 
uncomplaining courage : nor was it the first time that 
Edmund had made him ashamed of himself. 

“You’re tired, sit down,” he said, wheeling for- 
ward the only cushioned arm-chair in the room, and 
' pushing Edmund into it, as if it were a delight to 
him to do little services for a superior. “How white 
your hair is, Eddy! I saw you in the street, and did 
not know you, it has changed you so.” 

“ I should have known you anywhere, at a glance: 
you’ve not changed, only hardened and strength- 
ened. And your hair is dark still, it is not even 
gray.” 

“In the Personal columns they say I dye it.” 

“And do you?” Edmund laughed in Yarbor- 
' ough’s ireful face. “Never mind; I can even con- 
ceive that you might dye your hair, but always with 
. a patriotic object.” 

“Have the goodness to show a little respect to 
me, will you?” said Yarborough. “It is good to 
I see you. Where have you been?” 

: “Paris, Athens, Byzantium, Teheran: and you?” 

“Further than you: I have lived in London.” 

“Which is, by-the-by, in a very sad humour with 
you. What is all this I hear about an impending 
invasion of India?” 

“Oh, we’re in the breakers, as usual: steering 
through diplomatic surf within a few inches of ship- 
wreck. We shall be over the reef in a few hours, 
with a stretch of smooth water before us, and so 
I’ve told them: but they won’t take my word for it.” 

“They would perhaps prefer a glance at the 
287 


Yarborough the Premier 


chart,” Edmund said drily. “Why do you not give 
them what they want?” 

“What, I explain myself to that clamouring, thick- 
skulled rabble? You should know me better. Be- 
sides, it might be dangerous.” 

Edmund leaned back, laughing quietly and un- 
restrainedly. “I think you said you were unpopu- 
lar?” he remarked. 

“You think I deserve it? Good: and so I do.” 
Yarborough turned his head away; his voice dropped 
involuntarily to a lower tone, to a vibration of un- 
controllable suffering. “But not from them: not 
from these people. I did love, I have served them: 
and for my pains I am made the subject of hits in 
topical songs at music-halls, and everybody cheers. 
I have been the victim of certain popular demon- 
strations in the streets, which made me wonder 
whether, at the last, I should even be allowed to 
die in my bed. And Tve given up everything for 
them: I’ve given up — Justin — ” 

He broke off, Edmund watching him quietly: 
both shrank from the explanation that was to come, 
which Yarborough had so far held at bay. He went 
on after a perceptible pause, which gave him time 
to crush down the resilience of pain. 

“You heard of my marriage?” Edmund bent his 
head. “My wife was a woman of no individuality, 
but she performed her duty in two ways remarkably 
well: she bore me a son, and died. I cannot tell 
which was the greater relief to me, at the time. 
Soon, however, I discovered that her death was a 
quite insignificant benefit compared with Justin’s 
288 


Yarborough the Premier 


^ birth. He was mine.” Again Yarborough paused, 
; and signed with his hand to Justin’s portrait. 

“There was nothing of his mother in him. He was 
! mine: my very son: flesh of my flesh, bone of my 
I: bone, spirit of my spirit. And, strangest of all, 
' he loved me.” 

“The past tense, Ian?” 

Yarborough turned away his face towards the 
gray street and the rainy eastern wind. “It ap- 
pears that he has left off loving me,” he said. 

“It was my fault, I suppose,” said Edmund, 
after a minute. “And yet it was not my fault at 
: all. It was partly your own, for teaching him to 
S believe that he understood you when he did not 
!: know so much as his ABC: and partly it was a 
I cursed little trick of luck. His cry was, that he 
= knew all about the treaty, and that you told him 
i everything. And I — I asked him if you had ever 
; regretted the part you played : and that was the way 
i it began.” 

i “There must have been many riddles in his mind 
! which leaped up to acclaim your solution,” Yar- 
;i borough said, with a cynical smile. “I’m not keen 
f on the details of that colloquy, Edmund: keep them 
I to yourself.” 

' “And so I am made the instrument of sending 
, upon you the one thing more than you could 
I bear?” 

I Yarborough turned upon him, his face a flash 
i of fire, and brought down his slender, white hand 
I clenched upon the table. “I defy God to send 
upon me more than I can bear.” 

289 


19 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Be it said in a good moment!” Edmund ex- 
claimed. He was superstitious to the backbone, 
and made a furtive movement to cross himself. 
“Ian, for Heaven’s sake! do you want to be taken 
at your word?” 

Yarborough laughed in his face. “What is to 
happen, will happen; that is what I felt when I 
saw you and Justin together. I thought of that 
tyrannous old Greek, who saw his sins visited upon 
his head in his old age.” He stretched out his 
hands with a strange, pathetic gesture. “All 
things became unstable, wavering and falling away 
like water under my grasp.” 

“You are famous, however,” Edmund observed. 

“What a perfectly banal consolation! Do you 
imagine that I would give the toss of a bad farthing 
to lie in Westminster Abbey, with a pile of intensely 
ugly parti-coloured marbles over my tired and de- 
composing corpse? No: if you’ve got to lie cramped 
in a coffin, with your eyes shut and your jaw bound 
up, what’s the odds between the Abbey and a 
pauper funeral ? Personally I should prefer the 
latter, for the sake of Mallinson and his revenues.” 

“You will leave Justin a great inheritance.” 

“Consisting of a hundred a year in Consols, plus 
the handicap of a tarnished name. Your respect- 
able suburban citizen would not take a son of old 
Yarborough for his stable-boy.” 

“Dear fellow, you are too absurd! You do not 
surely expect me to credit all this rhodomontade?” 

“I never expect any man to believe the truth: 
but it’s true, all the same. Mind, I don’t say 
290 


Yarborough the Premier 


they’re not afraid of me: but that’s a different 
question. It is an excellent thing for Justin to 
have cast me off; it is unlucky that he has ever 
called me father. He had better have been a 
bastard than my son.” 

“Do you think so? Now I, for one, am positive 
there will be a reaction after your death. Nothing 
so sentimental as your good citizen! give him but 
the pretext of a funeral, and he will weep over a 
gallows-bird.” 

“ On the contrary, as soon as I am dead I shall be 
execrated by every honest householder in the Empire. ’ ’ 

“Ah 9a! I do not believe that. Why?” 

Yarborough crossed to his writing-table, drew 
out a deep drawer, and took from it a small coffer 
of solid iron, fitted with a massive patent lock. 
He unlocked it with a key which hung at his watch- 
chain, and took out a duodecimo volume bound 
in leather, so thick as to fill the depth of its case. 
He carried it to Edmund’s side, set it on the table, 
and ran his fingers through the pages, which were 
covered with his own strong, black, and tiny 
writing, and irregularly spaced for days, and months, 
and years. 

“The history of my life,” he said, letting it drop 
again. “I began to keep that record the night you 
left England.” 

Edmund looked up mutely, fascinated by that 
singular journal, but as yet understanding nothing 
of its purpose, or of its bearing on his own fortunes. 
Yarborough smiled at him. 

“It’s all down in black and white,” he said: 

291 


Yarborough the Premier 


“every trick, every cheat, every lie: the story of 
the treaty, with your share in it and mine, set down 
in detail. I had meant to leave it in Justin’s hands ; 
an agreeable legacy for a father to leave to a sen- 
sitive, romantic, idolatrous little son — you agree 
with me? But death covers more sins than charity, 
and I hoped he would take the good with the bad, 
and love me in spite of all. But that is over, and I 
have had to find a new editor. I have just de- 
spatched a letter to Savile asking him to undertake 
the task.” 

“To Savile?” Edmund repeated. “ My dear child, 
are you — are you sanef Why Savile?” 

“He has the necessary diplomatic knowledge, for 
one thing : it’s a delicate matter, you see. He’ll 
know where the asterisks ought to come in.” 

“But — you will give that book to Savile? You 
will give him your confidence?” 

“I like Savile,” Yarborough declared coolly. 
“And he likes me. We swear at each other in 
public — ” (“Oh, I trust not!” Edmund interjected) 
— “but that’s beside the mark. You could not do 
it, you would spend your life in whitewashing my 
character and refining .upon my phrases. Savile ’s a 
man of inflexible justice, a man after my own heart : 
he’ll do it as I’d have it done. And if he needs 
help, his wife will help him: I’ve directed him to 
put my letter straight into her hands, if he wants 
any further exposition of my motives. So your 
name will be cleared at last.” 

“But not till you are dead: and what good will 
that do to me?” 

292 


Yarborough the Premier 


Yarborough let fall upon Edmund’s face one of 
his profound and piercing glances. “Perhaps it 
will not do much good,” he said. “You are one of 
the men who love me, Eddy.” 

“How charming of you to be surprised! I think 
it is twenty years and more since I gave up all, and 
followed you?” 

“Well,” said Yarborough, irresolutely. He ruffled 
the leaves of the great book, and let them fall again, 
sighing : the blank pages at the end were few in 
number. “It will puzzle the historians,” he said. 
“I have extenuated nothing, nor set down aught in 
malice: I am written down a mean scamp on every 
page: yet neither would I gloze over my virtues, 
such as they are, for modesty’s sake. And I have 
some virtues — great ones, too, egoist that I am! 
Well, it’s all there: a man’s soul, stripped of shams, 
with not a rag of vanity to drape its deformities. 
God send them joy of their dissection ! Does it come 
too late to please you, Eddy? You’re still young.” 

An indefinable chill of fear came suddenly over 
Edmund: he looked up quickly. “But you are 
not dead yet, I believe,” he said. 

“Not yet: but see, there are not many blank 
leaves in the book, are there?” 

“You will have to bind some in,” said Edmund. 

“I think not.” 

Edmund got up, threw the book on the table, and 
laid his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “I knew 
it, I was sure of it,” he said. “You have said a great 
deal about yourself, and yet told me very little I 
did not know before: you have taken all for granted, 

293 


Yarborough the Premier 


passed over all as if it were of no consequence. You 
have something to tell me: what is it?” 

“Nothing of any consequence.” 

“Ian, tell me!” 

“Well, then, I’m dying.” 

“Dying!” Edmund echoed; and again, as if he 
hardly understood, ''Dying?'’ 

“I’m afraid so: unlucky, isn’t it?” 

“Unlucky!” Edmund exclaimed, as if he could 
not get beyond Yarborough’s bare words: and sud- 
denly he broke into a laugh. “Ma foi, you’re right: 
I avow I’m sorry.” 

“I’m dying of angina,” Yarborough coolly re- 
sumed. “Painful? — why, yes: it generally is. The 
attacks recur pretty frequently of late. I had one 
this morning.” 

The absolute indifference of his tone had upon 
Edmund the effect of some frightful dream, from 
which he struggled to awake, and could not. “But, 
Christian, what madness!” he gasped. “You are 
up — busy, working — have you seen a doctor?” 

“Two: the second only a week ago. They pre- 
scribed absolute rest and freedom from excitement,” 
Yarborough said, his tone pregnant with irony. 
“You will perceive that the prescription might have 
been easier to follow.” 

“And you went on working? Christian! why, it’s 
madness. You’re throwing your life away.” 

“No: I am laying it out at good interest.” 

“How long did they give you?” 

“The first was prepared to cure me, or as good as 
cure me, if I put myself unreservedly into his hands: 

294 


Yarborough the Premier 


that was a year ago, in the thick of the Tariff vSession. 
The second gave me a few weeks, perhaps a few 
months — perhaps a few hours.” 

“Then you might die at this moment?” 

‘ ‘ Probably I should have to go through some 
sort of preface of agony.” 

“So bad as that?” 

“Rather like knives turning in one’s breast. 
Don’t faint, Eddy.” 

Edmund was not far off it, but he recovered him- 
self and kept strong control of his face and voice, 
anxious only not to distress Yarborough. He could 
not be satisfied, however, without putting him 
through a brief medical cross-examination, the issue 
of which left little room for hope. 

“So near to the next world!” he said, steadying 
his voice with an effort. “How does it look to you, 
Ian — that room beyond?” 

“Blank, as it always did. What says the wise 
man? ‘There is no work, nor device, nor knowl- 
edge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest’ 
— whither I must go very soon.” 

“You never were afraid of death.” 

“And am not now. No! the nearer I come to it, 
the less I fear it: the more keenly I yearn for it, as 
for my appointed day of release. Oh ! mine has been 
a fool of a life, Edmund. I shall be glad to be quit 
of it.” 

“Does Justin know of this?” 

“Not a word: why should I trouble him?” 

Edmund shook his head. “It’s madness: you’ll 
break the boy’s heart,” he said. 

295 


Yarborough the Premier 

“ His heart? No, for I never had it. He was fond 
of me and respected me,” Yarborough answered, 
with an indescribable accent of irony. “He never 
loved me. He is a religious youth, however, and 
will be publicly shocked by my death: privately he 
will look upon it as a blend of the righteous judg- 
ment and the happy release.” Yarborough paused, 
then went on with a sudden and total alteration of 
manner. “Look at the clock! I must be at the 
House in a couple of hours. Edmund, do one thing 
more for me!” 

“You know I will,” said Edmund. “What is it?” 

“Play to me, the way you used at Chanston, when 
we were boys together. Do you remember those 
endless improvisations with the wind’s voice wailing 
through their recurrent melodies? You had always 
a master-hand on the piano. I’ll lie down here on 
the sofa and listen, and forget everything in the 
world except that I’ve got you back again.” 

Under the gray sky the gray clouds whirled 
through the wind’s cold fingers: the rain beat upon 
the casement, the clock ticked softly through the 
sombre afternoon. Edmund sat at the piano, play- 
ing without a break : from his fingers flowed sombre 
harmonies, broken chords, fragments of the song 
of dead lovers: stormy cries of battle, the clarion- 
call of ambition, the lust of fighting, and the clangour 
of arms: then the deep jarring thunder of a death- 
march, and at the close of all the low lament for the 
dead. 


XIX 


‘‘ Father, I Have Sinned ’* 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 

W HEN Justin made his exit from the premier’s 
official residence and cast himself adrift upon 
the world, he was quite without a plan or a purpose. 
Nothing could have been more artless than his 
flight, a fact of which he became dimly aware when 
he sat down under a tree in St. James’s Park to count 
the coins in his purse, and found that they amounted 
to the sum total of threepence and a halfpenny 
stamp. A piece of string, a stick of chocolate, a 
handkerchief besmeared with paint and a tattered 
pocket-edition of Stretton constituted the remainder 
of his available assets ; and Justin had far too much 
good sense not to be aghast at his predicament. 
The brief autumn evening was already darkening 
towards night, and in all that great city he had 
neither a lodging nor a friend : every door was shut 
against the outcast, the premier’s son. There came 
into his mind a little mournful wonder that his 
father should have let him go so readily : but in spite 
of all he was thankful to have escaped, and would 
have died sooner than go back to the great gloomy 
house, about whose walls the taint of treachery and 
297 


Yarborough the Premier 


of hypocrisy clung like the infection of some deadly 
plague. Here he might starve, but at least he could 
breathe freely ; by exile he had won liberty of mind. 

Healthy children live by faith. Justin had shot 
up with the quiet growth of a plant or a bird, con- 
fiding not to-morrow only, but the mysteries of to- 
day and yesterday, to the wisdom of his father’s 
keeping. He knew that Yarborough was unpopular, 
and yet he had never found himself forced to admit 
that either he or the people who hated him must be 
in fault. His father was the best man in the world, 
but the world also was very good; there was a mis- 
understanding, nothing more. Some day, accord- 
ing to Justin’s favourite dream, the premier was to 
be righted before the eyes of the world by his son’s 
explanation; the details of that splendid apology 
were left a little vague, but the result stood out 
clear, like the bow in the cloud. Now, all was 
changed, confused: there was no open vision, the 
boy’s faith served him no longer; in his own strength 
he must, by thought and reasoning and judgment, 
win for himself place and light amid darkness and 
storm. Solitary among millions, he was glad of his 
isolation, glad of the evening, and of the high south 
wind that beat across the Park. He looked up into 
the gray sky, where the great clouds seemed to fiy 
unresting, like so many homing birds; the whole of 
that vast movement overhead was informed by 
barren labour, working for no visible end. The 
trees, too, dropping their damp leaves at his feet, 
were content to labour and perish without fruit ; the 
whole tangible universe, so far as he could apprehend 
298 


Yarborough the Premier 


it, was but an imperfect instrument, full of errors, 
failures, crimes, incomplete, not wholly doing its 
Creator’s will, not always reaching to the height 
even of His purpose; lacking beauty, dashed with 
cruelty, yet allowed by the Master-Craftsman be- 
cause, after so many thousand beaten years, it still 
continued to work and not to faint. The stars, 
appointed to be seats of archangels, must fade and 
burn away; everywhere death waits on life, achieve- 
ment is no sooner gained than it passes into ruin, 
and yet the last word is victory. Earth is not 
corrupted by her evil, but sanctified by her good. 
Soothed by the strong morality of nature, Justin 
sat dreaming with his face turned to the wind ; 
the wind, making in a grand and idle obedience 
towards some dim, unknown bourne. Where was 
the good of it all? Justin asked himself. Where 
was the good of a wrecking wind at sea? Yet the 
winds are Heaven’s ministers. So, might not men 
also be ministers of Heaven, if, though fallen, they 
continued to work and not to faint? Yarborough 
had fallen, but not ignobly; he had sinned, but not 
for gain. Was the tired worker never to be for- 
given ? 

Then, like a tide returning, came the memory of 
the sin by which Yarborough’s life was still en- 
thralled. Edmund was not yet cleared, and Yar- 
borough lied daily. He was premier, living not so 
very uncomfortably upon stolen money ; he possessed 
a kind of fame, extorted a kind of joy out of the 
battle. All these gains must be renounced, before 
pardon could be won. Confession and reparation 
299 


Yarborough the Premier 


must come first, public confession, public atone- 
ment. Energy awoke in Justin; he locked his 
hands together, and looked up at the stars, which 
began to show themselves in blue windows of the 
clouds. When one is only fifteen, and possesses a 
full measure of the three cardinal virtues, it seems 
an easy matter to unmake and remake a life, 
to retrieve the mistakes and wipe out the sins of 
sixty misspent years. Justin felt as if nothing 
could be simpler than to persuade his father to 
write, say, a letter to the Times, vindicating Ed- 
mund, and setting forward his own share in that 
scandal of twenty years ago. With a child’s divine 
clear-sightedness, he pierced and flung aside the 
casuistry of common-sense ; reaching forward to 
eternity and God, he could afford to disregard the 
verdict of the morning papers. Doubtless Yar- 
borough also would soon learn, perhaps had al- 
ready learned, to distinguish between the finite which 
must pass away, and the infinite which alone 
truly exists. How easy to repent, how beautiful 
to perform the acts of repentance, in comparison 
with the torment of estrangement from heaven and 
from Justin! What was to come afterwards, Justin 
left a blank; the right course, once found, must be 
taken, and unimportant practical details must be 
left to shift for themselves. His naif, innocent logic 
allowed no middle way. 

Justin’s vigil had lasted so long that it was now 
quite dark, and the autumn evening had closed 
in cloudy and wild. He got up, and walked slowly 
out of the park, still considering his own conduct 
300 


Yarborough the Premier 


with a clear-eyed intensity peculiar to the very 
young, whose purity of ideal has never had to ally 
itself with compromise. Love for his father was 
beginning to spring up like a plant bruised, but not 
broken; but with his love mingled indignation and 
stern scorn and grief. Himself the very soul of 
candour, and incapable of a lie, he could not forget 
that his father had deceived him. The first de- 
spairing hatred was over, over too was the first wild 
passion of flight; he was going home, but in the 
spirit of a judge. Things could never be as they 
had been — or, at least, not for a very long while. 
He came into the familiar street, and looked up at 
the familiar house, all shuttered and dark; not a 
light burned in any of the windows except one, 
and that he knew to be his father’s private study. 
Through the cracks in the shutters he saw the dim 
shining of a candle, which burned there all night 
long. The house had a ghostly look, the street was 
very still. Justin felt such a rush of love and 
longing go over his heart as brought the tears to 
his eyes. He had parted from his father in anger 
for the first time in his life, and he had meant to 
come back in judgment, but he could not do it; 
nothing but love and pity filled his heart, and a 
childish longing to kiss and make up the quarrel, 
to lay his cheek against his father’s, and tell him 
that nothing mattered. He came up to the step, and 
lifted his hand to the bell, and suddenly, quick and 
strong, came the knowledge that he could not go in. 
He could not come to his father’s side, nor be 
folded in his father’s arms, because so to return would 
301 


Yarborough the Premier 

be to lose his only hold over Yarborough’s actions. 
Once he had got his son again, Justin could not 
think that Yarborough would ever be induced to 
make amends to his son’s God, in whom he did not 
believe. Justin never dreamed of disobeying. He 
went away without a murmur, without one back- 
ward glance. The spoiled child wanted his warm 
nest, the loving heart ached for memory of the 
premier’s desolate hearth, pride and anger were 
purged away, and he was ready with an infinite 
multitude of excuses to cover up the sin against 
men, but the sin against Heaven remained, and 
could not be excused. For men Yarborough had 
done good work, and if he had fallen, he had also 
laboured and suffered; but God exacts a purer 
service, accepting sacrifice only from innocent hands. 
In His eyes, the temple of Yarborough’s life was 
built upon the sand, and it lay with Justin to supply 
a new foundation. He came out into the full 
bright tide of the godless city, miscalled Christian. 
Whitehall was light as day, and noisy as an orchestra ; 
lamps shone out, carriages swept by, faces flashed 
upon him and were gone, and over all the great 
night brooded, and the wild wind fled continually 
north. He heard Big Ben striking eight, and 
suddenly found himself to be exceedingly hungry, 
for he was a person who liked to eat at regular hours. 
Four meals a day left him frequently ravenous, and 
now he had had neither tea nor dinner. He thought 
regretfully of the peaches left behind at Chanston 
last Sunday evening — last Sunday evening! Never 
had the irony of time’s reckoning struck so coldlv 
302 


Yarborough the Premier 


upon Justin’s mind: it seemed part of a different 
life. Nevertheless his first concern was with mat- 
ters more immediately practical than the problem 
of bed and board. He turned into a post -office 
and bought a second halfpenny stamp, then into a 
stationer’s for a penny-worth of note-paper; both 
were in the act of closing, but Justin had a coaxing 
tongue, and rarely experienced much difficulty in 
getting what he wanted. Then, standing under a 
gas-lamp, he pencilled, in the narrow, clear hand- 
writing which was part of his inheritance, a letter 
to the premier: 

“Dear Father, — You are to confess everything and set 
Sir Edmund clear. Make everybody understand it was 
you, not he. If you won’t do it, I must do it myself. 
Till it is done I shall never be able to come back, and I do so 
want to come back. 

“Yours always, 

“Just.” 

''He said one ingredient of a diplomatist was having 
mastered the art of omission,” was Justin’s reflection, 
as he dropped the letter into the post-box. “I do 
think that’s most diplomatical and strong-minded; 
and I could have said such heaps of nice things, too, 
if I’d liked. Let’s see, I’ve got three halfpence left, 

1 and part of a stick of chocolate. I would like a bun, 

I but I expect I’d better get a penny loaf, and save 
i the halfpenny for breakfast.” 

He bought his loaf at a restaurant in the Strand, 
j and was grievously disappointed because it was 
I only a little one. He carried it down to the Em- 
bankment, and sat on a bench to munch it, taking 

303 


Yarborough the Premier 


alternate bites of bread and chocolate. To-morrow 
he must try and get some work, to-night he could 
do nothing ; and when he had washed down his scanty 
supper with a handful of water from a drinking- 
fountain, he curled himself up in a corner of the 
bench, and tried to go to sleep. Fortunately the 
night was mild, and Justin had a faculty for drop- 
ping off anywhere and anyhow, like a cat ; in a 
little while the net -work of lights across the river 
blended mysteriously into a golden haze ; then came 
shut lids and darkness, and the wanderer slept. 

A long time went by before Justin woke up again, 
cramped and chilly, and with a strong impression 
that he was being chased by wolves across the 
steppes of Russia: in fact, he seemed to hear the 
howling of the pack still ringing in his ears. He 
stretched himself, yawned, and looked about him at 
the dark night, the river-side lamps, and the long 
range of the Houses of Parliament with their broken 
level of roof. Nothing was to be heard except the 
wash of the water and the striving rush of the wind. 
He had just settled himself back to sleep when there 
came again the singular howling noise which in his 
dream he had taken for the cry of hungry wolves; 
but he was awake now, and knew it to be something 
far more alarming. Many evil human passions con- 
tributed to form that cry; the mob was up, and to 
judge by its note of triumph it had got hold of its 
prey. Justin started to his feet and looked towards 
the Clock Tower : the hands on the lighted dial 
pointed to twenty minutes past twelve, the time 
at which Members are commonly leaving the 

304 


Yarborough the Premier 


House. He would not confess to himself that he 
was frightened, but certainly there was something 
quite out of the way going on behind him. He 
hurried along the Embankment, past Westminster 
Pier, up into George Street, breaking into a run as 
he drew nearer, and could distinguish more plainly 
the compound of groans and shrieks, hooting and 
cursing, which made up that inhuman din. But it 
was not till he came into the lighted area of Parlia- 
ment Square that the truth flashed upon him. 
Politics was the pretext, if not the motive, that had 
gathered together that howling crowd ; the air 
was filled with execrations of Yarborough’s name, 
and within the private brougham which was trying 
vainly to force its way into Parliament Street sat 
the premier himself, intrepid and probably amused. 
All this Justin grasped in a moment, though the 
crowd surging round the carriage prevented him from 
seeing anything except the heads of the rearing 
horses, and the calm face of Forrest, the old coach- 
man, looking straight before him with slanted whip 
as if he were driving in the Row. Justin’s heart 
gave a great leap, and then seemed to stand still; 
he was not so much frightened by the rage of the 
mob as horror-struck by their ingratitude. He had 
pierced his father’s counsels, and knew what deep 
love of the people underlay his cynical pride. Yar- 
borough could not fail to be wounded, and besides 
there is in the fury of a mob something at once 
stupid and devilish before which the strongest heart 
may quail. The throng surged to and fro, and 
Justin threw himself into it; but, though he 

305 


20 


Yarborough the Premier 


struggled and fought and twisted like a mad thing, 
he could not get very far. Nor could he any longer 
see what was happening ; he heard wild yells fol- 
lowed by a heavy stillness, and then he began to be 
afraid. Had they, like the wolves their prototypes, 
pulled Yarborough from his carriage, and torn the 
life out of their unpopular leader? 

In reality the sudden hush was caused by the 
arrival of a strong reinforcement of police, who 
forced their way through the crowd, and closed in a 
menacing cordon round the premier’s carriage. It 
was succeeded by a centrifugal movement, so marked 
and rapid that in a few minutes Justin was left 
alone, a small bewildered figure in the middle of 
the empty road. He was close enough to the 
brougham to observe every detail of its appear- 
ance, the scratched panel, the splintered glass, For- 
rest soothing the frightened horses, Yarborough 
wiping a stain of mud from his pale cheek as he 
leaned forward to speak through the broken win- 
dow. 

“A political attack? Really, you are too cour- 
teous to them,” Justin heard him say. “They were 
vampires, that’s all, and I deserve to be assassinated 
for allowing them to exist in a city I profess to 
control. But I’m none the less in your debt for 
coming so timely to the rescue, though I am afraid 
that when your deed gets known you will find your- 
self generally unpopular.” 

Justin turned round and ran away, just in time 
to escape examination by one of the premier’s escort. 
It was not from the police that he ran, however, 
306 


Yarborough the Premier 


but from the tones of his father’s voice, which drew 
him like a magnet, and set his heart aching incon- 
solably for the touch of his father’s arms. But 
he summoned courage to fly, and this last episode 
of the night, coming and going so strangely and so 
vividly, had no more effect upon his resolve than if 
it had been, what indeed it most resembled, such 
stuff as dreams are made on. 

Later, he was in the Strand, wandering eastwards, 
half asleep. He was afraid to go back to the Em- 
bankment ; here on the brink of the City the shut- 
tered shops turned blank faces towards him, and the 
wind raved through the silent streets, but the place 
was not wholly deserted even at two of an autumn 
night. Policemen went on their rounds with steady 
tramp, lamps burning behind lowered blinds soothed 
him with a sense of companionship, and now and 
again some belated band of revellers, linked arm in 
arm on the principle of Alpine climbers, startled 
the echoes with crazy bursts of song. At last, when 
he came to the Law Courts, he felt that he could go 
no farther. He sat down on the steps, leaning his 
cheek on his hand; the street was empty, the last 
notes of a drunken song were dying away in the 
villainous purlieus of Drury Lane. Its strain of 
coarse vulgarity was echoed back to Justin in a 
lapse of the wind, and vexed his pure spirit as sorely 
as the harsh, tuneless voices his musical ear. To 
escape from both, and between sleep and waking, 
he lifted up his own voice in song, which flowed 
from him as naturally as song flows from nightin- 
gales in June, a pure and heavenly tone, earth’s 

307 


Yarborough the Premier 


melancholy thrilling along the strings of an angelical 
harp. But, unhappily, even angels are not allowed 
to sing to themselves in a London street during 
sleep-time, and Justin had not finished the first verse 
of his celestial hymn when the light of a policeman’s 
lantern was flashed upon his sleepy face, and a kindly 
but peremptory voice asked him what he meant 
by it. 

“Nothing,” Justin answered mournfully. “I 
was going to sleep, and I forgot. I don’t have to 
think when I sing, you see. I’m very sorry, I hope 
I didn’t wake anybody up.” 

“Ain’t you got no home to go to?” the police- 
man inquired, sympathetic but suspicious. “You 
hadn’t ought to be sleeping out here, you know.” 

“I’m all right, thank you,” Justin replied, politely 
stifling a yawn. “I’ll get up and walk about if you 
like, though I can’t see why I shouldn’t sit here. I 
tell you what, I wish you’d let me come with you on 
your beat; I’d like to, awfully!” 

He jumped up; simultaneously a strong hand 
closed upon his arm. 

“Now I shouldn’t a bit wonder if there was to 
be an advertisement out after you in the Morning 
Post to-morrow,” the policeman said, virtuously in- 
dignant. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
young gentleman, running away from your friends 
like that! You’re the proper sort to be sleepin’ 
under archways, ain’t you? With ’is Eton jacket 
an’ all! Now, you just come along o’ me quietly — ” 

“I sha’n’t!” Justin exclaimed energetically, and 
vainly trying to twist himself out of the big police- 
308 


Yarborough the Premier 


man’s hands. “You can’t make me if I don’t want 
to go! I haven’t done anything. Let go my 
arm!’’ 

“Let him go, policeman, please. I will take him 
home.’’ 

Justin turned with a great start, and found him- 
self face to face with a lady who seemed to have come 
upon the scene like a fairy godmother. She wore a 
soft black morning dress, and her hair, pushed un- 
tidily away from her forehead, showed a disposition 
to slip down in soft coils from under her sailor hat ; 
but the hand which she raised to straighten it was 
thin and very white, and the diamonds that flashed 
upon it were worth a king’s ransom. Justin did 
not recognise her, though he was convinced that 
he had seen her face before, and her low, evenly 
modulated voice came to him like a familiar thing 
out of the long ago. Then she looked at him, with 
a grave smile, and he thought he had never seen 
eyes so sweet and winning, so proud and gentle. 

“Justin, come with me,’’ she said. “I am Mar- 
garet Savile.’’ 

Justin never dreamed of disobeying, nor did his 
late enemy make any more protest than if he had 
seen a ghost. Margaret turned and began to walk 
rapidly westwards, and Justin walked by her side, 
casting glances from time to time at the pale, flower- 
soft face under the brim of the sailor hat, and con- 
scious to his finger-tips of the wonderful sweetness 
of the woman whom his father had loved. He did 
not feel any surprise at meeting her alone and on 
foot in the City by night, nor had he any questions 

309 


Yarborough the Premier 


to ask, nor did he expect her to ask any of him. At 
length, after they had walked together some dis- 
tance, Margaret spoke. 

“I want you to go home,” she said. 

“Oh, but — ” said Justin uncertainly. 

“I know.” Meeting her sun-clear eyes, Justin felt 
sure that she did know all that was to be known. 
“But it is not always the hard thing that is right. 
God is very merciful. He forgives sins freely.” 

“But He doesn’t — does He? — till we leave off do- 
ing them.” 

“No : but He does not always ask us to undo what’s 
done already.” 

Justin fixed his wide, soft eyes on Margaret’s face 
with an intent, startled look. “But Sir Edmund?” 
he said. “Father ought to clear him.” 

“Sir Edmund will never be cleared while your 
father lives.” 

“Oh, but why?” Justin breathed. 

“Because it is one of the ways God punishes us, 
that we should find no place of repentance, though 
we seek it carefully with tears. Good and evil 
spring together of sin : your father is premier, and 
has a great work to do, and a great responsibility, 
especially just now when we are within a hand’s- 
breadth of war. You would not like him to seek 
his own salvation by, perhaps, bringing ruin and 
death upon hundreds of thousands of innocent peo- 
ple? Even if a man had murdered his captain, it 
wouldn’t be right for him to give up the helm when 
the ship was among the breakers.” 

“But the thing is, he isn’t a bit sorry,” said Jus- 
310 


Yarborough the Premier 


tin simply. “He’s only sorry because I’ve found 
him out.’’ 

“Make him sorry if you can; but you’ll do that 
better by just simply loving him than by staying 
away from him.’’ 

“And I was so tremendously proud of him — yes- 
terday,’’ Justin said with a touch of Yarborough’s 
own ironical scorn. “I thought he was the greatest 
man in the world.’’ 

“ Be proud of him still — I should be if I were you. 
I was myself,’’ Margaret averred quite naturally, 
“when, as I dare say you know, he asked me to 
marry him. Just at first it looks as though he had 
done a lot of mean things, but they are not mean 
really, they are only wicked. He had no faith, he 
could not wait for God, he felt that he must do 
things his own way; that was his mistake.’’ 

“Then do you really and truly think I might go 
back to him?’’ 

“ I think you may safely leave him to Christ, who 
loves him better than you do, yes, and understands 
him better than you do, too. Let them make up 
their reckoning together: as for you, all you have to 
do is to love him, and be a good son to him. He is 
so fond of you, Justin, he has nobody else in the 
world but you. And — after all — who knows? It 
may not be for very long.’’ 

Justin turned towards her quickly. “What do 
you mean?’’ he said. “There isn’t anything that 
you know and I don’t, is there? You don’t think he 
looks ill?’’ 

“I don’t think he looks very strong,’’ Margaret 

311 


Yarborough the Premier 


answered quietly. “Perhaps it is only my fancy, 
but I think he wants taking care of. And I don’t 
believe he would let anybody in the wide world take 
care of him but you.” 

After that they walked in silence for the short re- 
mainder of the way, Margaret absorbed in memories, 
Justin awed and dreamy like an acolyte on the tem- 
ple threshold. Not till Margaret stood still did he 
realise that they had reached Whitehall, and were 
within a hundred yards of his own door, and then he 
looked up, questioning. 

“Mrs. Savile, what will you do?’’ he said. “You, 
alone — and so late?’’ 

“I shall take a hansom and be home in half an 
hour.’’ Margaret smiled rather quizzically. “I am 
very glad I was kept late by the bedside of a dying 
woman, or I should never have heard you singing, 
or looked into your face, and then I think you 
would have passed the night at the police-station, 
instead of going home to a person who wants you. 
Will any one be up to let you in?’’ 

“ Father lets me have a key.’’ 

“Very rash of him. Tell him so, with my love, 
and be sure you don’t forget. Now run, then, 
sweetheart.’’ 

Justin felt that obedience was the truest form of 
politeness. He ran off down the pavement, and 
when he looked back from the threshold of the 
premier’s house Margaret was already gone. Softly 
he unlocked the door and let himself into the dark 
hall. All the lamps were out, and the house was as 
quiet as a grave; it was the very hour when, as men 
312 


Yarborough the Premier 


of science say, human energies are at their feeblest, 
and the lamp of life bums low. With shining eyes 
and serious, tender lips, Justin felt his way across 
the hall and climbed the staircase. The door of 
his father’s room stood wide; he had expected to 
find it so, and did not blunder. Noiselessly slipping 
along the corridor, he turned the handle of his own 
door, and peeped in. 

The electric light was burning, and every detail 
in the small room was set out in perfect order, as if 
its master were expected home that night. Justin’s 
evening suit lay, neatly folded, on a chair, and a 
can of what had once been hot water stood in the 
basin; the blinds were lowered, the small white 
bed was smoothly and carefully turned down. And 
there, with his arms crossed above his head and his 
face turned to the wall, lay Yarborough, fast asleep. 
He lay very still, his breath came softly and evenly 
like a child’s; and Justin, with his whole soul one 
rapture of thanksgiving and prayer, crossed the 
room on tiptoe and sat down on the floor by his 
side. 

Not for worlds would he have awakened the 
tired sleeper; and when, after a little while, he 
leaned forward and pressed the electric button at 
the head of the bed, it was only because he thought 
his father would rest better in the dark. But the 
change was too great and sudden, and Yarborough 
awoke. He lay still for some minutes, slowly 
coming back to his surroundings, and listening to 
the dash of wind against the window: he missed the 
glare of the lamp, and inferred that Mornington 

313 


Yarborough the Premier 


had come in and turned it out. Gradually the im- 
pression stole upon him, and grew in strength, that 
there was somebody in the room with him, sitting 
by his side, but holding his breath for fear of 
awakening him. But he neither moved nor spoke: 
he was reluctant to take up the burden of life again. 
The wind moaned in the chimney with a high 
piping note, keen and plaintive like a child’s wail, 
yet not wholly unjoyous; some tone it struck among 
its autumn harmonies which called to his mind the 
songs of spring, and the fresh glad riot of spring’s 
sweet-scented wind. There was a sound in the room 
at length, after the long stillness : a hushed move- 
ment, a quick breath drawn very softly. Still with 
closed eyes, Yarborough turned his head. 

“Is it you, Momington?’’ he asked. 

Again he heard that little stir of movement, 
quick and shy like the flight of a retreating bird. 
“Momington, is it you? What do you want?” he 
said, putting out his hand towards the noise. It 
was taken, but not by the faithful servant’s 
thin fingers; the hand which grasped Yarborough’s 
was soft and warm and plump; a round boyish 
hand, which closed over his own with a clasp like a 
surreptitious kiss. 

‘‘Who is it?” Yarborough’s free hand went up 
to the button of the electric light, but he did not 
dare to move it; he lay still, holding his breath to 
catch the answer, which came in a whisper, like 
the rush of spring wind among rosebuds. 

“ Father ...” 

The light flashed out under Yarborough’s touch, 
314 


Yarborough the Premier 


and, looking up, he saw Justin hanging over him, 
victorious yet shy, his eyelashes bright with tears. 
Yarborough could not speak, only he questioned 
him with his eyes. Then the old pathetic words 
came to Justin’s lips, and he could frame no other. 
“Father,” he whispered, “father, I have sinned — ! 
I’m sorry: don't be cross!” 

“Justin!” said Yarborough, white-lipped and 
scarcely audible. “Justin! My little son!” 

Justin quailed before a passion stronger than he 
had ever known. So wakening out of sleep, Yar- 
borough had cast aside the reticencies of daily life, 
and the look that he gave to his son was one more 
often fixed upon the cold masks of the dead 
than upon the faces of the living. Justin’s em- 
barrassment quickened, hurrying him into a rush 
of speech. “Father, I never will again, truly,” he 
said. “I’m awfully sorry. You — you won’t be an- 
gry, will you?” 

“Angry? No,” said Yarborough, hardly know- 
ing what he said. “Angry? No: why should I be 
angry? This is not a dream, is it? You won’t go 
away again?” 

“Oh, father, do I look like a dream?” Justin said, 
leaning over him, and then, somewhat abashed, yet 
gathering up his courage, he slipped his slim, boy- 
ish arm round Yarborough’s neck, and raised the 
tired head to his shoulder. “Do you like that?” 
he asked. “Are you comfy so?” 

Yarborough drew a deep breath; he lifted his thin 
hand and laid it against Justin’s warm cheek. “It 
is my son,” he said; “bone of my bone, flesh of my 

315 


Yarborough the Premier 


flesh, spirit of my spirit. Dreams do not come in 
such shapes of warm, soft flesh and blood. Yes, 
it’s my son; but what brings him back? I thought 
you were so mighty contemptuous of me, Justin?” 

“I know; I think I must have been mad.” 

“The deuce you were! Are you mad now, I 
wonder? Let’s feel his wrist; it’s supple and soft, 
but the pulse beats evenly enough. Oh, he’s not 
mad now. What’s to do, then?” 

“You’ll hate me when I tell you what I meant 
to do.” 

“Hate you? I think not. I’ll whip you for it, 
though, if it’s very bad,” said Yarborough, indolently 
sinking back against the young form that propped 
him. He had never lifted his hand against his son 
in his life, and would as soon have whipped a girl: 
and Justin, knowing it, laughed. 

“I wrote a letter to you to-night, to tell you that 
if you didn’t confess all about it I would have to 
confess it myself, and that I could never come back 
till it was confessed,” he said, with a mixture of de- 
fiance and shamefacedness. “I had quite made up 
my mind to tell Mr. Savile myself, if you wouldn’t.” ; 

An ireful spark kindled in Yarborough’s eyes. - 
“You little lion’s whelp!” he said. “You were not ’ 
afraid of me, then?” 

“I don’t expect you to understand my motives, 
because I acted strictly from principle,” Justin 
said severely. “I wanted awfully to come back, \ 
only I wouldn’t because I didn’t think it was right. 
And I never would have come, if I hadn’t changed 
my mind. You couldn’t have made me.” 

316 


Yarborough the Premier 


“ Rank pride and rebellion,” said Yarborough glee- 
fully, “confound you! What do you mean by dis- 
obeying me, sir?” 

“Would you have me for a son if I was afraid of 
you?” 

“I’d have you for a daughter, which is what you 
look like. You’re a pretty boy at the best of times, 
but with those pearly drops hanging on your eyelids 
you look positively girlish. Why did you change 
your mind?” 

“I didn’t; Mrs. Savile changed it for me.” 

“Who?” 

“Mr. Savile’s wife; Miss Carew that was.” 

“What the deuce had Margaret Carew got to do 
with you?” 

“Oh, I sat down on a step of the Law Courts 
and went to sleep, and began to sing, and a bobby 
came up and wanted to take me off to the police- 
station, and she was walking down the Strand and 
heard me singing, and recognised me and made the 
bobby shut up and let me go and walked me home. 
At least it was something like that,” Justin ex- 
plained. “ Oh, my lord, thy servant is very weary.” 

Yarborough leaned back more heavily against 
him. “I am making your arm ache,” he said tran- 
quilly. “Never mind; let it ache, since it aches 
for me. You owe me arrears of service, my son. 
Go on.” 

“I will,” said Justin, “only as a matter of fact it 
doesn’t ache at all. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t. Shall 
I try and hold you differently, so as to make it 
ache?” 


Yarborough the Premier 

Yarborough threatened the frankly mocking face 
with the palm of his hand. “Little fool, go on: 
what was Margaret Carew doing in the Strand at that 
hour of the night?” 

“I don’t know,” Justin confessed. “I think it 
was the long arm of Providence, or coincidence, or 
something. We neither of us asked any questions, 
it all happened just like things do in a dream. At 
least, she did just say she had been sitting up with 
a sick person; I expect she guessed you would want 
to know.” 

“Very likely,” said Yarborough drily. “Be a 
little more lucid, can’t you? What did she say? 
Tell me every word she said.” 

Justin wriggled uncomfortably; but there was no 
resisting Yarborough’s arbitrary caprice. Word for 
word, so far as he could remember it, Justin was 
constrained to render Margaret’s homily, to which 
Yarborough listened with a grim smile. 

“Pious but inconclusive,” he remarked, as Justin 
broke off. “Was that all?” 

“No; she told me to be proud of you.” 

“Counsels of perfection? So!” 

“No; she said she used to be very proud of you 
herself when you were her lover.” 

Yarborough started, and drew back. “She said 
that?” he said, after a momentary pause. “Well! 
good Lord, Margaret, you knew how to keep your 
own counsel!” 

Justin had caught up Yarborough’s hand, and was 
absently fidgeting with the solid old-fashioned wed- 
ding-ring which the premier had taken from his dead 
318 


Yarborough the Premier 

wife to wear as a memorial, or perhaps as an apology. 
“Father, do you love her so very much, still he 
asked. 

“Love her?” Yarborough lifted his finely cut 
head with an impatient gesture. “Men like me. 
Just, if they love once, love for ever.” 

“ But you’ve got me, now.” 

“I did not say I was still breaking my heart for 
her, did I? What a fool you are, child!” 

“She sent her love to you,” said Justin. “She 
said I was to be sure and remember.” 

“Did she think I should let you forget?” Yar- 
borough broke out in a flash of sombre, partly re- 
strained passion. “Did she think I should not beg 
every word of you that had fallen from her lips? 
Ah, Margaret, I still prize your words, though you 
throw me few enough, and those like crumbs to a 
dog. I told you I should remember, but you have 
forgotten even that I said I should remember. No 
more secrets and divisions for us, Justin! Nothing 
but death shall part thee and me.” 

“Nor death either.” 

“Do you believe that?” Yarborough asked with 
an odd lift of his brows. “Have you such faith, 
son of mine?” 

“Don’t you believe that?” 

“I believe in myself and yourself; also., occasion- 
ally, in the devil. Du reste— ” Yarborough shrug- 
ged his shoulders. 

“Oh, I don’t agree with you,” said Justin eagerly. 
“I’m sure — ” he stopped, confused: he had never 
discussed such matters with his father. 

319 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Sure of heaven?” said Yarborough, regarding 
him quizzically. “Sometimes I begin to doubt if 
you are my very son, Justinian; there is a touch of 
the angel about you which I am sure was never 
derived from me. As for your mother, I am happy 
to say I have never detected any likeness to her in 
you. She was an excellent woman, and is without 
doubt in paradise.” He paused a moment, adding, 
“That is one reason why I do not desire to go there.” 

“There’s a vein of pure wickedness in you,” 
Justin observed critically: “a streak of real diable- 
rie. How dare you speak so to me of my mother? 
I’ve a good mind to be really angry with you.” 

“I own I should be seriously perturbed if I were 
compelled to share your views of the next life,” 
said Yarborough smoothly. “I feel convinced that 
I should be ineffably bored by the company of an- 
gels, and the prospect of an eternity spent in the 
society of the late Mrs. Yarborough is one that 
daunts even my hardened courage. I do, however, 
remember one text that consoles me.” 

“What?” said Justin. 

“‘In my Father’s house are many mansions,’” 
quoted Yarborough, with an exceedingly cynical 
smile. “I should insist upon a separation.” 

“That’s profane,” said Justin slowly. “You’re 
not to talk like that: I don’t like it.” 

Yarborough bent his dark brows irefully. “I 
have a mind to be angry with you for that,” he said. 
“What right have you, a baby of fifteen, to dictate 
to me with your shall and your sha’n’t?” 

“I shall dictate to you if I like, and you’ll have 
320 


Yarborough the Premier 


•to do what I say. Besides, think what it means!” 
Justin added dreamily. “You don’t believe in it, 
I know, but wouldn’t you like to? I think it’s so 
lovely to think of heaven as a real place, where you 
and I perhaps may go some day : a place where there 
are no secrets and no half-truths, where one can do 
things that are quite good, and not get conceited 
over them. Down here the noblest things we do 
are only half noble, and there are no real successes: 
but beyond there is no shadow of sin — it is all per- 
fect sunshine, ‘plainness and clearness without 
shadow of stain.’ Wouldn’t you like that, father? 
I know you would.” 

“ Yes, I should like to believe in your creed, child,” 
Yarborough said, and sighed. “I’d sooner keep 
faith in God in the lowest circle of hell than live for 
ever in a godless Eden. If I know myself. I’d gladly 
worship a just God, even if the first act of His justice 
were to cast me down into everlasting fire. But if 
; there is such a Deity, He has never revealed Himself 
' to me: I never knew Him.” 

i Justin turned suddenly, and flung his arms round 
! Yarborough’s neck. “Father, I’m frightened,” he 
: said, hiding his face. “ Father, death seems so close, 
so close sometimes. Hold me.” 

Yarborough did hold him for a minute, as if he 
[ defied Death itself to loosen his clasp. At length, 

; forcing a laugh, he kissed him and put him away. 

“Father!” said Justin suddenly, 
j “Son of mine?” 

\ “Is it dawn yet?” 

■ Yarborough drew up the blind. The sun would 
321 


21 


Yarborough the Premier 


not be up for another hour, but already his light 
was abroad in the sky, and the clouds were drifting 
backward from tracts of morning blue. “It is 
dawn,” he said. 

“Then it’s to-morrow, and I’m glad. Yesterday 
was beastly, father.” 

“Trouble of mine?” 

“I’m not your trouble; you’re your own trouble, 
not me. Father, Mrs. Savile said you looked ill. 
You aren’t, are you?” 

Conscious that Justin’s eyes were fixed piercingly 
on his face, Yarborough bent his head for a moment 
over the cord of the blind. “ I ill?” he said, after an 
almost inappreciable pause. “What put that into 
her head? I am good for twenty years yet. Thou- 
sands of dawns like this have to come and go be- 
fore you and I say farewell. “Come, you are over- 
tired and hungry,” he said. “Let us go down to 
the larder and regale ourselves upon cold mutton 
and rice -pudding and American cheese, which is 
what your premier dined off to-day. They tasted 
bitter enough without you; I have a fancy that 
they may be sweeter now.” 

An hour later a comforted and weary Justin was 
tucked up between the sheets: the fingers that had 
curled tightly round the premier’s hand relaxed, 
and soft even breathing announced that Justin 
was asleep. But Yarborough stood and looked down 
at him with a wrung face : day by day and night 
by night he saw the inexorable shadow stealing on, 
soon to fall between them and part them for ever. 
He had long known that death was surely and 
322 


Yarborough the Premier 


swiftly drawing near to him, he knew now that it 
was overtaking him with the steps of a giant. He 
knew, too, and was convinced that Justin would 
ultimately guess, that the end had been hastened 
by those hours of anguish and bereavement which 
Justin had brought upon him. How bitter an 
awakening lay before the child of his love before 
so very many dawns should come and go! Yarbor- 
ough would even have prayed, but he had no God 
to pray to : all things were slipping from his hands, 
and death in its most horrible form — death mate- 
rial, annihilating, corrupting — had already sapped 
the springs of his life. To leave Justin was bitter- 
ness inexpressible ; to lose him for ever was an agony 
which human nature, even the proudest, is not con- 
structed to bear. Yarborough sank under it: he 
knelt trembling by the bedside, while Justin slept 
softly as children sleep, and without the dawn 
slowly brightened in the pale autumnal sky. 


XX 


Would God I Had Died for Thee 

“So quiet! doth the change content thee? — Death, 
whither hath he taken thee? 

To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? 
The vision of which I miss. 

Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and 
awaken thee?” 

ALL through the long sunny hours Justin slept 
/A on, tired out, and never woke till the sun was 
beginning to go down into a bank of fall cloud and 
London mist, embrowned by his coppery light. 
A long golden beam, slanting through the open 
window, bathed Justin’s eyelids and awoke him: 
but he lay still for a little while with his eyes shut, 
lazily contented with the glory and the hushed 
warmth of the evening air. At last the sound of a 
soft footfall in the corridor aroused him, and he 
turned his face towards the open door, saying im- 
periously : “ F ather . ’ ’ 

“Awake at last?” said Yarborough, coming to 
his side. “Six times to-day have I come in to 
look at you, to the detriment of public business; 
and now it’s close on five o’clock. Are you not 
ashamed?” 

“Why would I be? I was sleepy,” Justin said. 

324 


Yarborough the Premier 

He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. 
“What day of the week is it? oh, Friday. You 
won’t have to go to the House to-morrow, how 
jolly! Let’s go down the river in a canoe!’’ 

“And lunch at the Star and Garter,’’ Yarborough 
suggested. 

“ The Star and Garter would never do, it is a 
great deal too high-class for poor people like us. 
You’re not a bit economical, papa,’’ Justin said, 
yawning again. “Oh, how sleepy it does make you 
to go to sleep in the daytime ! What a lovely yellow 
the sunshine is to-night! I do hope it won’t rain 
to-morrow, but it looks rather like it. What have 
you got for tea?’’ 

“Bread and butter.’’ 

“And an egg: I must have an egg,’’ Justin urged 
in a slightly injured tone. “Tell him to boil it 
three minutes and a half, please, not longer. Re- 
member, I haven’t had any dinner.’’ 

“It is not likely that you will let me forget that,’’ 
Yarborough responded with his somewhat grim 
smile. “Since you insist upon knowing the menu 
before you get up, I may tell you that I have 
ordered poached eggs on bacon and cherry -cake 
with lots of icing.’’ 

“And coffee?’’ 

“And coffee.’’ 

“Tell him to boil lots and heaps of milk,’’ said 
Justin, with a luxurious smile. “This is what I 
call a really nice way of waking up. I think I shall 
generally do it in future. Have you got to go 
down to the House to-night?’’ 

325 


Yarborough the Premier 


“Yes, by a devious route: so I shall have to 
start early.” 

“Why?” 

“Waring has just been here and hinted that I 
had better tell Forrest to drive round and approach 
the House via Victoria Street in a closed brougham 
with blinds drawn down. It is certain that these 
English do most cordially abhor their premier,” 
Yarborough explained. “I was mobbed last night 
in Whitehall. To-day he — er — in view of the 
disquieting rumours which have unfortunately per- 
meated the less responsible of our morning dailies, 
finds himself reluctantly compelled to admit that 
he may ultimately be forced to apprehend a dis- 
turbance of a similar nature, but somewhat more 
difficult to quell. In other words, Mr. Yarborough, 
sir, he thinks there’s going to be a row.” 

“Of course you told him to go to Jericho?” 
Justin cried, sitting up in bed with pink cheeks and 
wrathful eyes. 

“I assumed no control whatever over his move- 
ments: I contented myself with mentioning what 
my own would be.” 

“You won’t do what he says?” 

“Not if they barred the way with a battery of 
Maxims and a regiment of horse. Am I the man 
to get out of the way of a mob and slink in by a 
back door? I never will give them a chance to say 
that I was afraid.” 

“Hurray! I’m so glad, father. Was he very 
cross?” 

“Well, he implied that I was a fool and I said he 
326 


Yarborough the Premier 


was an idiot, but we parted on terms of mutual re- 
spect. Waring knows me pretty well by now, and 
I don’t think he had much expectation of getting me 
to do it. It’s not the first time I’ve faced a hostile 
crowd: no, nor the twentieth.” 

Justin was excited, but not wholly satisfied. He 
could not wish his father to slink in by a back door, 
and yet he was not without a disquieting memory 
of the assault of last night, which was to be surpass- 
ed by the riot of to-day. The old proverb about dis- 
cretion came into his mind, and he could not help 
thinking that to defy a mob is sometimes no more 
reasonable than to run your head against a brick 
wall in order to prove a right of way. One might 
almost say in such a case that the guilt of bloodshed 
lies upon the man who wantonly provokes it. But 
Justin was too well acquainted with the reckless 
perversity of Yarborough’s courage to attempt any 
dissuasion: and he had, besides, excellent reasons of 
his own for quitting the subject. 

“What are the disquieting rumours?” he asked. 

“I have not looked into them very closely,” Yar- 
borough answered with a sublime indifference. 
“Some fresh absurdity connected with the tenure of 
Merv and Harris’s murder. I believe the last idea 
is that Russia has left a garrison in Merv and is ad- 
vancing southwards. At all events they are going 
to move a vote of censure to-night in the House.” 

“How soon will you be able to tell them the real 
truth?” 

“I will let you into a secret for which the journal- 
ists would pay you your own weight in gold. To- 

327 


Yarborough the Premier 

night I announce in the House the evacuation of 
Merv and withdrawal of Russian troops.” 

”0h, father. What a triumph!” 

“Not in the least,” said Yarborough, with his in- 
scrutable smile. “Russia does precisely what she 
always meant to do : a particular band of brigands 
having been suppressed, she withdraws from the 
Emir the troops for which he has no longer any use. 
We have wronged the innocent by our ungenerous 
suspicions.” 

“Then you won’t get any kudos out of it! How 
sickening!” Justin sighed regretfully. “Never 
mind! You’ll be able to take a real holiday to- 
morrow, when all that is off your mind. Now run 
away, father, I’m going to get up. Oh, and just 
tell Mornington to bring me my shaving water, 
please — properly hot.” 

Yarborough had arranged to share Justin’s eggs 
and bacon in the school-room at half-past five, and 
start for the House at six ; but they had not finished 
tea when Carteret came in with a troubled look, and, 
refusing to join them, made a sign to Yarborough 
that he wanted to speak with him alone. Justin’s 
face fell, but he raised no protest : he was accustomed 
to be set aside by Carteret, who was for ever preach- 
ing expediency and conciliation to his impolitic chief. 
Reluctantly Yarborough rose and followed Carteret 
into his library. 

“What do you want now?” he asked half crossly. 
“Cannot I even have my tea in peace?” 

“Not when thee knows very well thee ought to 
328 


Yarborough the Premier 


be down at the House. Fine scenes we have had 
this afternoon, inside as well as out of it! Is this a 
time to be chattering with children?” 

“Is this all you came to say?” 

“No; I came to ask whether thee’s too proud to 
go down Victoria Street.” 

“Easily answered: I am.” 

“Then thee’s a pig-headed fool, and deserves to 
pay for thy obstinacy. The square’s packed, and 
I’ve never seen an uglier-looking crowd. Come, 
Christian, my lad, don’t bring about a riot: they’re 
saying thee’s sold us to Russia, and when they’re 
not singing ‘Rule Britannia’ they’re thirsting for 
thy gore. Poor Waring’s in despair; he’s got all 
his men out, but what can he do? We shall be 
calling out the military next.” 

Yarborough looked down at Carteret with his 
bitter, melancholy smile. “Times change, and 
some of us change with them,” he said. “My Lon- 
doners and I used to love each other, and it’s only 
London who has changed. No: I’ll neither run 
away nor have them shot down. Let them do as 
they like. What does it all matter?” 

“You’re crazy,” said Carteret, with a peevish 
accent which hid deeper feelings. “I wash my 
hands of thee. If any blood’s shed, on thy head 
be it.” 

“Oh, I don’t suppose they’ll harm old Forrest,” 
said Yarborough carelessly. 

Carteret shrugged his shoulders and went back 
to his work. Yarborough gathered up a sheaf of 
notes and thrust them, all disordered, into his 

329 


Yarborough the Premier 


pocket: usually he liked to have them before him 
to refer to if necessary, but to-night he was confident 
that they would not be needed. Never had his 
head been clearer, his ideas more lucid: already his 
thoughts were beginning to clothe themselves in 
burning and splendid words, and he felt that he 
was going to make a great speech, perhaps the 
greatest he had ever made. No need of notes and 
memoranda: that Titanic memory, of which he was 
not a little vain, held masses of facts and figures 
sufficient to refute and confound the severest attacks 
of the enemy. Yarborough felt something of the old 
Homeric joy in battle as he descended the steps and 
leisurely got into his carriage. It was not the one in 
which he had driven last night, but an open victoria, 
hired for the occasion: for Yarborough’s stables con- 
tained no vehicle except the one brougham, and 
that had suffered at the hands of the mob. Yar- 
borough paused with his foot on the step: plainly 
there came to his ears a distant angry murmur, upon 
which Waring’s and Carteret’s warnings put a sin- 
ister interpretation. He glanced at the old coach- 
man, sitting impassive on the box. 

“The mob is up, Forrest,’’ he said, “and we shall 
meet them. Are you afraid?’’ 

Forrest touched his hat, and slanted his whip at its 
smartest angle. “Yessir,’’ he said. 

Yarborough was for a moment astonished; but 
recollecting that this was really only Forrest’s in- 
variable formula of assent, he got in, smiling grimly 
to himself: “Drive on then,’’ he said. “The usual 
way.’’ 


330 


Yarborough the Premier 


Forrest gathered up the reins: the elderly gray 
horses, the best that Yarborough’s impoverished 
fortunes could afford, pricked their ears and settled 
to the collar. At the last moment, when the wheels 
were beginning to turn, a slim boyish figure came 
running down the stairs, across the hall, and down 
the steps, and scrambled into the carriage before 
Yarborough could stop him. 

“Oh, wait for me !” Justin cried : and then as he 
nestled down by Yarborough’s side, “Did you think 
I should let you go alone, ’father?” 

“Justin, go back; you can’t come to-night.” 

“I’m coming.” 

“Go back. I’ll not have you. Do you hear me?” 

“I won’t let you go alone. I was there last night, 
and saw it all. Send me away, and I’ll follow the 
carriage on foot — I’ll hang on behind!” 

“But it’s dangerous, Just: you don’t understand. 
It’s always touch and go with these infernal mobs. 
There, listen!” The roar of the people came to 
their ears with the cold, strange, and hungry note 
of high waves breaking over a shingle beach: nor 
was the voice of this human tide one whit more 
human or less threatening than that. “ My darling, 
to please me go back!” Yarborough pleaded in ac- 
cents unlike his own. 

“You want to send me away because it’s danger- 
ous?” Justin echoed reproachfully. “That’s pre- 
cisely why I won’t go!” 

Yarborough set his teeth : a quite new expression 
came into his eyes. “ Drive round by Victoria Street, 
Forrest,” he said. 


331 


Yarborough the Premier 


“For shame, father! how can you be such a cow- 
ard? You surely don’t think I’m afraid?’’ 

Yarborough laughed hardly. “No, but I am,’’ 
he said. “Well, let us go on then. It is too late 
to change now : we could never get by unrecognised 
in this conveyance, so we had better follow the route 
by which Waring expects us.’’ 

Forrest whipped up his horses and they went off 
at a fast trot. The full mass and thunder of the 
crowd struck upon them as they turned into White- 
hall, and Yarborough shrank under it and covered 
his face with his hand: but Justin sat proudly 
erect and unafraid. He was holding fast to his 
father’s hand under the fur rug, and was not a bit 
afraid of the sullen packed ranks which herded 
across the road. The mob was made up of women 
as well as of men, respectable enough in dress for 
the most partf with the usual percentage of irre- 
claimable roughs of either sex, the men in patched 
trousers and broken hats, the women bareheaded 
and with their hair done up in curling-pins. Police- 
men, some in uniform and some in plain clothes, 
were scattered thickly along the line of route, but 
what was to be done with a crowd too large to be 
dispersed, which neither cursed nor hooted nor 
attempted any attack? They were waiting, that 
was all: and as they waited they murmured, and 
their murmur went up like smoke, intangible, un- 
traceable, but infinitely malicious and threatening. 
Now and again, among the countless waves of this 
living sea, some turbulent billow surged forward 
from shelter or side street and communicated to 
332 


Yarborough the Premier 


the whole teeming mass its long vibration of motion 
and sound, and wherever such a break occurred 
Waring ’s men were to the front, controlling, warn- 
ing, threatening: but so sudden, so fierce, and so 
united had the rising been that the authorities had 
had no time to cope with it in any adequate form. 
And over the multitudinous white faces, and the evil 
murmur, and the kaleidoscope of perpetual shifting, 
and the flickering of early lamps — over all these the 
fires of a red September sunset brooded low in the 
west amid the gloom of sullen-folded clouds, like 
red embers among the pale ashes of an extinguished 
fire. 

Yarborough hid his face in his hands to shield 
himself from recognition, but Justin snatched them 
away. “Don’t, don’t,’’ he said, “they’ll think you 
are afraid.’’ No one could well have thought the 
same of Justin, who sat upright with pink cheeks 
and sparkling eyes, as if a triumph lay before them. 

Forrest whipped up the startled horses, and the 
carriage plunged into the midst of the rioters. In 
the gathering dusk of the evening they were not 
immediately recognised, and insensibly the mob 
parted and made way for the carriage to go through. 
Yarborough’s whole soul was summed up in the 
longing to push Justin down and hide him away 
out of sight of the mob: and he would have done it 
if he had not known that Justin would resist, and 
that it would be madness to do anything which 
might attract the notice of those hostile eyes. They 
forced their way on, but ever more and more 
slowly: and, what was worse, the people closed in 
333 


Yarborough the Premier 


behind them like water on the track of a ship, so 
that it was too late now to think of retreating. 
Presently, when they had got nearly as far as the 
entrance into Parliament Square, the carriage was 
brought to a standstill, and Forrest, turning in his 
seat, spoke over his shoulder. 

“I can’t get no further, sir, nohow,” he said. 

“O God, that I had gone the other way!” broke 
from Yarborough’s lips. 

Simultaneously, as if the halting of the carriage 
had been a signal, a hoarse, wild cry broke out, 
taken up and drowned in a roar of many voices: 
they were recognised. All fear and all regret were 
over now. Yarborough sat like a rock, fronting 
with steady haughty eyes the dense pack of human 
wolves which raged and surged around his carriage. 
Again that wild and frightful cry of stupid hatred 
beat up against the lowering clouds, the sombre fire 
of sunset. 

“Who sold us over to Russia?” 

“Who took away the big loaf an’ give us a little 
’un?” 

“Wotcher murder ’Arris for? Tell us that, will 
yer? Pretty sort o’ Christchun you are!” 

“We’ve got yer now, guv’nor, an’ we mean to do 
for yer,” hiccupped a drunken rough, leaning across 
Justin to threaten Yarborough with his ponderous 
fist. The carriage gave a sudden lurch, and he 
missed his footing and fell, and the wheel went 
over him: and Yarborough’s face was lit up by a 
brief pale gleam of mirth. He looked round and 
saw Waring, not ten yards away, forcing his way 
334 


Yarborough the Premier 


forward on foot with an escort of mounted police 
at his back. Another two minutes and Justin 
would be safe. He leaned forward and put his 
arms about him, sheltering him with his own body: 
Justin struggled, and could not escape. 

Then high above the evil din rang out the thin 
voice of a man who had scrambled to the roof of a 
night - watchman’s hut beside some road-mender’s 
excavation. “We asked bread of ’im an’ ’e give 
us a stone,” cried the shrill fanatical voice. “O 
brethren, give ’im back wot ’e gave to us!” 

Waring was just closing upon the carriage when 
the mob, acting upon this suggestion, fell back to 
the broken space of road and hurled a volley of 
flints upon Yarborough at the very moment when 
Justin tore himself from his arms and sprang up 
to face them. Yarborough was hit over and over 
again, but he did not know it: dumbly he put out 
his arms to Justin, and Justin sank into them, fall- 
ing sideways, dripping with blood: a large irregular 
flint had struck him on the temple, and his forehead 
was crushed. 

Yarborough took him in his arms, wiping the 
blood away ; and for a moment the dark eyes opened, 
and Justin looked up, with a last smile for his father. 
Then the young head dropped, never to be lifted 
again in life. 

Yarborough sat holding the dead body of his 
son in his arms. He heard cries, and noises a 
long way off, but nothing to come very close to 
him, except the one incontrovertible fact that 
Justin was dead, and nothing remained of him 
335 


Yarborough the Premier 


except this piece of crushed clay with fading 
eyes. Presently Waring came up and touched his 
arm. 

“ O Lord, sir, is he dead?” he asked. 

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” said Yarborough, 
turning the drooping head. Then, as Waring re- 
coiled, “ Have you got the man who threw the stone? 
Bring him to me.” 

The man was brought, shrinking. “Here, look 
what you’ve done,” said Yarborough. “You meant 
it for me, I know, but why the devil couldn’t you 
throw straight?” 

The man, a slouching vaurien of the tramp class, 
gave one quick look from the child to the father, 
and choked down a sob. “There goes a fool,” said 
Yarborough to Waring contemptuously, “who does 
what he didn’t mean to do, and repents what he has 
done. If you want to do me a service, Waring, let 
him escape.” 

“Mr. Yarborough, sir, don’t you think you’d 
better take the poor young gentleman home?” said 
Waring in a low voice. 

Yarborough turned and carefully laid Justin down 
upon the seat of the carriage. “Take Mr. Justin 
home,” he said, turning to Forrest, who stood by 
weeping openly, “ and carry him up yourself, you and 
Mornington, and lay him — it — on the bed in my 
room. I shall be with him presently, but I have 
work to do first.” 

Forrest looked into Yarborough’s face, the tears 
streaming from his old eyes. Perhaps he, of all 
present, in his simple dumb obedience understood 
336 


Yarborough the Premier 


Yarborough best. “ Yessir,” he said, touching his 
hat: and Yarborough went away, without one back- 
ward glance, towards the House through the now 
empty square. He shook off Waring, who would 
have held him back. 

“You mean very well,” he said, “but you don’t 
understand. You have no child.” 


XXI 


The Parsley Crown 

“ The day in its hotness, 

The strife with the palm; 

The night in its silence, 

The stars in their calm.” 

T he House was half empty when Yarborough 
entered, but it filled up shortly after, and all 
over the benches was heard that buzz of murmured 
discussion which indicates that something of un- 
usual interest is expected to take place. The Peers’ 
gallery was crowded, and the reporting staff was al- 
ready busy. Yarborough took his seat on the Treas- 
ury bench and saw Savile facing him, very calm and 
stately: behind and below him gathered the rank 
and file of his party, a compact, well - disciplined 
body, marked by an air of unity and loyalty which 
made them a strong contrast with Yarborough’s 
mutinous troops. He held his position only by a 
bare majority: many believed that to-night’s vote 
of censure would not prove as unfruitful as votes of 
censure generally do. Nothing was to be gathered 
from the premier’s white face and unwavering eyes : 
neither expectation of triumph nor dread of defeat 
had set any visible mark upon the strong marble of 
his features. While preliminaries were being dis- 
338 


Yarborough the Premier 


posed of, his most trusted colleague, Mallinson, 
Chancellor of the Exchequer, leaned forward and 
touched him on the arm. 

“Yarborough,” he said, putting his lips to the 
premier’s ear, “look at your hand. What have you 
done to it?” 

Yarborough looked down. The hand that rested 
on his knee was wet with Justin’s blood. A shudder 
passed over him, and for a moment the lamp-lit 
hall, the blank faces, the familiar kind tones of 
Mallinson’s voice seemed to blend together and re- 
cede into infinite space. Then all things came back 
and resolved themselves into colour and shape and 
sound, and he turned and thanked Mallinson, smil- 
ing: “I have no recollection of hurting it,” he said. 
“But it takes so little to draw blood.” He took 
out his handkerchief and wiped away the stains. 
Mallinson leaned back in his place and said no more ; 
but he watched Yarborough keenly from that mo- 
ment. 

They proceeded to the business of the evening. 
Savile had committed the task of moving the vote 
of censure to a man in whom he had a sincere con- 
fidence: he had held office as Home Secretary dur- 
ing Savile’s brief tenure, and was no personal enemy 
to the great premier, nor was he one of those who 
coupled private with public charges, and accused 
Yarborough in the same breath of high treason and 
petty larceny. Emphatically a moderate man, 
Ainslie-Sladen was also a very clear, precise, and 
pointed speaker : every word of his studiously polite 
oration was audible to the remotest corners of the 
339 


Yarborough the Premier 


House. One only among his audience seemed to 
hear not one syllable of his speech: that one deaf 
listener was Yarborough, whose motionless face and 
eye of dark, indwelling fire changed not by one 
flicker of expression from the first word to the last. 
Yet it was a damaging attack, for the Opposition 
had a good case to bring forward. Yarborough’s 
methods were not always politic, as on that very 
afternoon, when he had deserted his place in the 
House to watch for Justin’s waking: and by his 
amazing silence on the Russian question he had 
alienated very many of his nominal supporters. 
This breach Ainslie - Sladen set himself, adroitly 
enough, to widen; fretting with skilful irony the 
self-love of the great egoist’s wincing followers, while 
with the smooth arts of reason he appealed to their 
judgment to say if England’s present position, har- 
assed and dragged down by diplomatic embarrass- 
ments, torn with class quarrels, and threatened with 
European war, bore out that haughty claim to an 
imperial and unique success by which the premier 
sought to justify the demands of his extravagant 
tyranny. 

Ainslie-Sladen sat down amid thunders of applause 
from his own side: the Liberals withheld their fire. 
Savile rose to second the amendment in a brief and 
rather distrait speech: he had heard from Mar- 
garet the story of Justin’s night wanderings, and 
he could not banish it from his mind. It was not 
often that private considerations disturbed the even 
balance of Savile’s judgment: but Margaret had 
described the boy’s fresh young devotion and ten- 
340 


Yarborough the Premier 


demess with a fidelity that touched the romance 
that underlay Savile’s outward judicial calm, and 
he found himself involuntarily sympathising with 
Justin, and hoping that Yarborough would escape. 
Yet his speech was keen and critical, and carried 
weight, as always: the tranquil ease of his manner 
covered any private uneasiness, and conveyed to 
his audience the impression that they were listening 
to a man profoundly acquainted with the historical 
value of his cause, and genuinely convinced of its 
merits. 

Savile sat down, and still Yarborough did not rise. 
So sure had all been that he would be on his feet 
in an instant to reply, that no one was ready to take 
up the cue: and a singular little shock of surprise 
traversed the House like a wave of cold air. Then 
the watchful Mallinson leaned forward again and 
softly touched his leader on the arm: and Yarbor- 
ough, coming to himself, cast one rapid, consum- 
mate glance over the rows of whispering faces and 
rose in his place. 

He essayed to speak: his opening words were 
tremulous, uncertain, and barely audible. Mallin- 
son fidgeted with his watch-chain : Savile glanced up 
in surprise. Yarborough lifted his right hand with 
a strong, nervous gesture to mark a point which 
hardly any one had caught : there was still a streak 
of fresh blood upon the wrist. Then his words 
failed altogether, and he stood staring at the little 
mark. Some one on the Opposition benches cried 
out a derisive, “Hear! hear!” amid a chorus of 
ironical laughter. Mallinson half rose, thinking 
341 


Yarborough the Premier 


Yarborough would have fallen; but he did not fall. 
He stood with his feet slightly apart, his head bent, 
his sunken eyes afire, his hands thrust deep into his 
pockets: it was his familiar fighting attitude, and 
the House breathed again. The scoff had roused 
him: he was himself again, and the old arrogant 
spirit, which nothing could ever wholly subdue, 
armed him for a last fight in the familiar arena, now 
grown so unfamiliar and so strange. Thus standing, 
he began his speech. 

Twenty years later Savile, taking up an old vol- 
ume of Hansard in which that speech was reported, 
found, as he read it, his memory recalling every 
play of thought over those wasted features, every 
vibration of that unparalleled voice. He held the 
House breathless: he was himself possessed of his 
subject, rather than its master, and still through 
every tone of anger and indignation and sorrow, of 
wrath and irony and vitriolic scorn, again and again 
he struck out some strong alien chord, which gave I 
know not what impression of loneliness and abstrac- 
tion. He was no longer one of them, a fair mark for 
contradiction or ridicule, but, like a being from 
another planet, he spoke out of darkness to them in 
light. All great disasters have this power of separat- 
ing their victims from the rest of the earth. Round 
Yarborough the darkness and chill of the next world 
were already beginning to gather : he stood on the 
border -land with his face set towards death, and 
spoke to them over his shoulder. 

It was plain from the beginning that the vote 
of censure had no place in his calculations: even 
342 


Yarborough the Premier 

the triumphant issue of the Russian intrigue, which 
was to have furnished the text of his defence, was 
related and dismissed in a few brief words. Still 
less did he trouble himself to refute the imputations 
cast upon his own political character. “I have no 
time,” he said, “nor have I now any great concern, 
to vindicate myself, other men may do that, when 
I shall have ceased to be involved in this shifting 
world, in its vain ambitions, its barren jealousies.” 
Men looked at each other with questioning eyes, not 
understanding what he meant. Midway, Mallin- 
son, who never took his eyes from the premier’s 
face, saw that he staggered slightly, and leaned 
against the table. All the House saw him, a mo- 
ment later, press his hand against his side, and 
stand for a moment silent. A man seated close to 
Savile sent a whispered comment to his neighbour 
behind his hand: “At his tricks again, the old fox! 
wants to sham ill now, and gain the sympathy 
of the House.” Savile turned and made an im- 
perious sign of silence, while from the Liberal 
benches a hushed, continuous cheering broke forth, 
giving Yarborough time to recover himself and 
resume his speech. Savile was curiously reminded 
of the old days at Whitney, when Yarborough had 
indeed adroitly contrived to faint in the middle 
of a speech: but the marvellous passion of those 
old times seemed now to have been boyish and 
unreal, fevered and artificial, in comparison with 
these strong words, built out of the conviction, the 
labour and sorrow, of the long disastrous fight. 
Yarborough spoke no longer as one who will do, but 
343 


Yarborough the Premier 


as one who has done: indeed, as one whose work 
on earth is finished, and not ill-finished, amid much 
feebleness and many mistakes. He traced his ideal 
of England’s greatness, slowly matured through the 
seed-time of the past, into the present, with all its 
accomplishments, with all its needs: then looking 
forward he prophesied the future of Europe, and 
the path which England must tread to keep herself 
great, and free, and pure: a path indicated by the 
opening lines of his great policy, but to be followed 
by generations of politicians yet unborn, when his 
body should have crumbled away into dust. He 
spoke as men speak when the hand of death is 
upon them. That thought was in many minds as 
he drew near to his close : at the end he himself con- 
fessed it, breaking off from the height of his passion, 
in a voice grown suddenly weary. 

“I shall never again speak in this House. I 
shall never again have part nor lot in the govern- 
ment of this great country. Henceforward, her 
destiny is committed to purer hands than mine: 
yet let no man think I did not serve her well, from 
the beginning to the end of my life. That deity 
has neither shrine nor temple, but she has her stone 
of sacrifice — ” He broke off, swaying like a reed. 
“Savile, help me, I’m dying,” he said. 

He turned and put out his hands blindly. Savile 
came to his side, and caught him as he fell. Amid 
a scene of nameless, of indescribable confusion, the 
premier was carried from the House in the arms 
of his great enemy. Savile laid him down on the 
cushions of his own brougham, and knelt by his 
344 


Yarborough the Premier 

I 

! side, supporting him. A hand touched his shoulder, 
and looking up he saw Edmund Yarborough, his 
dark eyes dilated, his face almost as white as his 
brother’s. 

“In God’s name, what has happened?’’ he asked, 
i “God knows!” said Savile. 

I Yarborough lay huddled up, but not inert: every 
muscle was rigid, and he drew his breath in gasps 
between his clenched lips. But he was conscious, 
and looking up into Savile ’s eyes with the old 
f defiant urgency, he uttered, half-articulately, one 
word : “Home.” 

“A doctor — ” began Savile. 

“No : home,” .said Yarborough. His face was 
twisted like a mask, and the sweat streamed from 
his forehead, but the iron unquelled will con- 
strained Savile to obey. He shrugged his shoulders 
silently, and signed to Edmund to give the direction 
to the coachman, adding that he must drive fast. 
When they got to the house, the door stood wide, 
the hall was lighted; a cluster of servants, with pale 
scared faces, retreated from the threshold as the 
carriage drew up, and Forrest and Mornington ran 
out to open the door. 

“The boy, Justin,” Savile said hurriedly to Ed- 
mund, “is he there? Keep him out of the way, he 
must not see.” 

But Justin was not there. Savile carried Yar- 
borough into the hall, and laid him down on a 
lounge. Mornington, after one sight of his master’s 
face, ran up-stairs and came back with a bottle and 
a measuring-glass. His fingers shook as he meas- 
345 


Yarborough the Premier 


ured the dose : the sight of his dumb sympathy and 
terror was curiously touching to Savile. But Yar- 
borough stretched out a hand lean as a bird’s claw 
and signed to him to pour out almost a double dose. 
Probably such a potion would have killed a strong 
man in health: on Yarborough, after it had been 
forced between his lips, its effect was strongly and 
swiftly reviving. He lay still for a few minutes, the 
tortured limbs gradually relaxing; then he turned 
towards Savile. 

“To my room, Mainwaring,” he said, his voice 
very low yet steady. “Carry me to my room.” 

Savile lifted him like a child in his arms ; he had so 
lifted him once before, and the remembrance came 
back to him in a curious dreamlike flash. Edmund 
went first up the stairs, and opened the door. Yar- 
borough’s bedroom was large, plainly and darkly 
furnished: an old-fashioned half -tester canopy over- 
hung the head of the bed. Candles were burning 
on the dressing-table, and by their dim light Savile 
carried Yarborough across the room, while Edmund 
drew back the curtains. And there before them lay 
a vague shape, motionless, and covered with a sheet. 
Leaning from Savile ’s arms, Yarborough plucked 
away the covering. 

“Whom the gods love die young,” he said, with 
his untranslatable smile, “but not, I think, so young 
as this. Never so young as this.” 

The two men stood as if stricken. Justin lay 
there, calm as if asleep, still dressed in his every- 
day clothes: one arm was thrown up under his head, 
and his cheek rested on it: his face was turned 
346 


Yarborough the Premier 


sideways, so that no disfigurement was visible, and 
! only a patch of soaking crimson on the pillow 
I showed that his rest was the eternal sleep of death. 
I The other hand was put out as if to be taken by 
!: some one who loved him, with sunburned fingers 
ji curled over the soft palm : his feet, in their little 
muddy boots, were crossed at the ankles and drawn 
up slightly at the knees. One would have sworn, 
i: except for that fresh stain, that he still breathed, 

I and was about to awaken. At length Yarborough 
' spoke. 

“I can’t stand, let me lie down by him,” he said. 
“This is the way the people have expressed their 
dislike of their master. Savile, Eddy — don’t you 
I think I am punished enough?” 

“If there’s justice in England — ” Savile said 
i harshly, and then broke off. There was not much 
i consolation to be got out of justice, which would 
i never revive that bright innocent human flower, 

• untimely cut down. 

’ “Would you not swear he would wake in a mo- 
' ment?” said Yarborough. He drew the little hand 
! into his own and held it. “‘But the clasp is the 
I clasp of Death, heart-breaking and stiff!’ There’s 
poetry for you, Eddy.” 

I Edmund drew a crucifix from his own neck, and 
laid it reverently on J ustin ’s breast . ‘ ‘ Look beyond , 

I;' Christian,” he said. “He was not of our faith, but 
\ he was of the Faith. He is in paradise with the 
^ blessed saints, and with the elect.” 
i' “I declare to you, I do not believe it,” Yarborough 
\ answered. “They have taken away my boy, who 
347 


Yarborough the Premier 

loved me, whose eyes used to look into mine with i 
such a fearless, innocent, trusting look: they have ‘ 
extinguished the pure flame of that young spirit, - 
and left me nothing but this pretty and pathetic > 
little heap of bones and flesh and blood. I do not j 
believe that he is alive in paradise. I do not believe 
that I myself am separated by more than a few ^ 
minutes from the gulf of extinction, into which he i 
has preceded me.” I 

Edmund took his handkerchief and wiped the | 
forehead of the dying man. “Let me send for a j 
priest,” he pleaded. ’ 

Yarborough’s eyes flashed with the old uncon- 
querable fire. “No,” he said: “I do not believe in i 
any God, and I’ll not have any mummery or sham j 
edification of the soul. I’ll have no man to pray J 
for my salvation and his own five hundred a year. 1 
A priest’s prayers are bought with his own tithes: 
I’d take the devil for a mediator sooner than your ■! 
stall-fed parson. You’ll lay us in the aisle at Chan- . 
ston, where all my forebears lie: and they may pray 
over me when I’m dead, for the child would have ^ 
liked to have it so. But as for me, faithless I came 
into the world and faithless I’ll go out of it. I am : 
not afraid to die.” 

‘‘Justin was a true son of his Church,” said Ed- ; 
mund quietly. Yarborough turned and laid his face < 
against the cold face that rested on the pillow. ■ 

“I held him so when he was a baby,” he said, 
“and he would wake and kiss me. Soft kisses, like i 
a woman, had Justin.” He looked up with a keen 
ironical glance at Savile, leaning with folded arms 
348 




Yarborough the Premier 

against the foot of the bed. “Almost as sweet as 
Margaret’s,” he said. 

Savile’s observant eyes noted some change in his 
face: silently he moved towards the flask of medi- 
cine. Yarborough checked him by a gesture. “It 
is the last fight,” he said. “All of you, good-bye 
— for ever.” 

The words included Carteret and Mallinson, who 
had come into the room together. Yarborough lay 
back: again came the agony and the struggle, but 
keener and very brief. Edmund knelt, praying. The 
rest waited for the end. 

Suddenly Yarborough raised himself: he sat up, 
holding Justin like a child in his arms. Over all 
his dark, ashy face there flashed an intolerable and 
transfiguring light : with straining eyes he looked 
outward and onward, beyond the world, beyond the 
dark and narrow confines of time and death. 

“O God, God whom I have defied,” he cried, “I 
thank Thee!” 


THE END 


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